


Awakenings

by Syllis



Series: Seek To Mend [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Chronic Illness, Jorrvaskr (Elder Scrolls), Legacy of the Dragonborn, M/M, Romance, Thalmor, The Companions (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Winterhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 75,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21807781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Summary: At the end ofSentiment, Justiciar Cyrelian collapsed from his injuries and illness. He has now been brought to Winterhold, where he will spend a significant period of time recovering and trying to make sense of his surroundings.Back at home in Alinor, Cyrelian's family has started to make attempts to locate him.Advisor Ancano travels to Solitude to meet with a trusted acquaintance to make inquiries about his new charge's history and significance.Justiciar Cyrelian opens his eyes-- and believes himself to be in great danger.Ahtar and Erdi go off adventuring in their efforts to make a new life for themselves... and end up parting ways. Erdi continues onwards at Sheogorath's urgings, towards Haafingar. Ahtar must go to Whiterun Hold and come to terms with his own past. The two return to Winterhold to make their home with Cyrelian as he recovers and struggles to adjust to his new circumstances.
Relationships: Ahtar/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Erdi/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Series: Seek To Mend [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1293077
Comments: 34
Kudos: 7





	1. Cyrelian: Saturalia II. (Auridon, Loredas 19th of Evening Star 4e202)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters SFW unless noted here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thalmor are gathering for a holiday celebration at an elaborate manor in Auridon-- an estate that used to belong to former Primarch of the Aldmeri Dominon Cyranrir Ata-Aldmeris, which now sits empty as his heirs squabble over their inheritance.
> 
> Cyrelian's younger sister Ceryolwyn and his mother Morna start to ask pointed questions about Cyrelian's disappearance, as he's been gone for over a year. The Thalmor themselves are policed by another governmental agency, the Talons; and now the Talons are involved as well, investigating Elenwen's motives and beginning the search for him.

At the nadir of the year, when all is dark and cold and silent-- 

When we come together for remembrance's sake, we tell a story: 

There was a great lady, resplendent in beauty and wealth if not yet in years, who went down through the long halls of her kinship-house, into the ancestors’ room, reserved for the honored dead. 

“The spark that you gifted us, that we have carried for so long-- it will go out,” she said.

I should hasten to add: this is not an ancient myth, from a thousand thousand years gone by. It comes from a mere eye-blink past, within this era. A time within living memory, for us.

“We are all dying,” the young kin-lady said. 

This was true, for it was the razor-sharp years in the wake of the Anguish, when all had shattered beneath the feet of the invading dremora as the terrible Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon tore our lands apart. Our cities were burned, our farmlands laid to waste. So many were already dead. And of those who lived, few wished to make children: to what purpose? To watch them starve in a poisoned land? 

Our elders were dead and our Law had fallen. Many were lost to despair. Of this young kin-lady's lineage, no one else remained. So while it is not proper for the youngest of a House to petition the Ancestors, she came to them.

“Our traditions ward you and protect you,” said a disapproving voice. “You are well provided for.” 

The young kin-lady startled. She had not expected a response. Still, she raised her chin and spoke firmly, for all that her voice sounded reedy in the echoing hall. “Wealth is ashes without life.”

“Then you must choose,” said the voice. “Each must choose.” 

The young kin-lady bowed in thanks.

When the first terror came at the end of the Second Era, our traditions failed us. 

We were soldiers held to disciplined ranks, watching in dismay as our fortress is taken. Waiting in desperate agony for orders that never come. 

Our defeat was shrugged off by our elders.

We were told that the brief and humiliating war with the humans had been a folly on the part of our royalty and kin-lords, no more. We had paid the price for our arrogance, so now it was meet that we turn our hearts aside from vengeance; we would instead work to regain all that which had been lost. 

We had submitted. 

We went to our ancestors in deepest abasement and shame, but our ancestors were silent.

So, in that new Third Era, we took our place at the fringes of the world of men; we took their language and their silly fashions. 

Some took their gods. 

We were told by our elders that none of these changes were of import. 

We were still the elder siblings; our knowledge and magicka, our way of life far surpassing anything that these men could accomplish, for all that their monstrous mechanical contraption had beaten us at war. From time unrecounted-- and for at least the five millennia past, we had looked to our kings and kinship-lords for guidance; we had relied upon the honor of our ancestors. We continued to walk the well-trodden path. 

We were assured by our elders that this would never change.

Over time our homeland began to recover. 

Oh, it was never the same; the great magickal constructs which had sustained us had been ruined, but over time the fields and farms recovered and the cities were rebuilt. There are areas in the interior gone to wilderness that even to this day have not been reclaimed-- they are dangerous, as are all things magickal which are broken-- but in the main, we regained our society, and all was as it should be. 

Our wealth and our history had barely been touched.

But less than five hundred years later, all was smashed again.

Some political machination in the world of men opened the gates to the dremora hordes; to the wild raging of the Prince of Destruction. Nearly everything was lost. Oblivion gates opened all over Summerset and Mehrunes Dagon’s creatures came forth, to slaughter us by the thousands. 

We looked to our human allies: no help came. 

We looked to the Legion, which had been stationed on our Isles, ostensibly to protect us from the sea-reavers and the Maomer and lawless men. Man and mer alike, the soldiers of the Third Empire packed up their ships and sailed back to Cyrodiil. 

In our hour of greatest need, the Empire of Tiber Septim abandoned us to our fate.

We looked to our king and our kin-lords for leadership and organization and found none.

Mer died by the hundreds five miles from where a full army sat, awaiting the signal. Crops rotted in the fields outside city walls while we starved within. The best of the kinlords did nothing, retreating into their walled estates to protect only their own. The worst kinlords became ravening wolves, seizing the opportunity to create new wealth for themselves-- so many were dead that there might yet have been enough food, that first year, but not once the speculators were done.

We looked to our ancestors. 

Our ancestors remained silent.

Until the young kin-lady sought and demanded an answer-- 

“You must choose,” the ancestor said. 

So the girl did. 

“No kin-lady, I,” she said. “Why should I walk in the steps of those who have left us to be damned and forgotten? I shall choose a new path." 

Thalmavan.

The girl abandoned her house and her name -- at least, in principle. She was wise enough to realize that her influence and her wealth would be necessary in the coming days. But the strictures of the traditions of the kin-lordship; all of the rules spoken and unspoken; these, she wilfully abandoned.

In rank, this girl may have been a kin-lady; but in years she was still only a student. The universities had maintained some modicum of organization and each held its own lands, so they remained bastions of civilization. After the onslaught had ended, they re-opened within the year. 

Rather than remain in an empty house, the young kin-lady returned to school. 

She met with her friends, and advised them. In turn they met with others, and so on. In a little over a month, the students at Firsthold had formed a formal meeting. The students had ideas about how to make life in their immediate vicinity more bearable. So they prepared a list of requests for the administrators of the university, and for the local kinlord. Requests when ignored often become demands; soon the students began to make demands. Now they crowded the administrative offices and the streets. Refusing to cooperate. Refusing to disperse.

It is difficult to explain just how novel and disturbing this behavior was to the mer who encountered it-- to show this level of disrespect to one’s authorities and to one’s superior kindred was unthinkable. Only reavers act like this-- the criminals and half-mad, who wander the broken lands and answer to no one. 

An entire university of students, participatory or not, was mocked and condemned as reavers. 

Houses and kin-lords and kinswomen were outraged. Some sided with their young people; others sought to call them home to punish them. Many were recalled home from school. But the spark had been lit. Most sparks fall on barren ground; but in these winds the spark carried by this young kin-lady swelled to a brushfire, doubling and redoubling its size too quickly for the authorities to even comprehend, much less stamp out.

And then a new spark flared, in a distant kinship's lands. And another and another, as the students and the servants and the common people spoke with their own peers. Those brushfires spread to a conflagration that swept the whole of the Isles. It burnt our traditional governmental structure to cinders before our elders could even take notice. 

That first kin-lord looked out his window one morning to find four-tenths of the entire population of the city on its streets, singing and chanting and making demands that he grant audience to their petition. Half his guards abandoned their posts to join that throng. He fled.

In the end, that kin-lord chose to abdicate. He was not the only one who did. The kin-lord who replaced the kin-lady who replaced him acceded to the students and their demands. And then he fled as well, leaving the governance of the city to its students and young people. 

It began in peace. 

It did not end in peace. 

Now there were mer who had experience in war, bolstering the ranks of the students. One commander, taught and trained in Cyrodiil, brought his entire company over to serve as cadre. The kinlords and the reeves and the princes who did not abdicate were overcome by force. 

Rumors swirled. 

Sages and sapiarchs conducted their own little wars and purges. The students were not heedless of the cries that what they were doing was ungodly and unmer-ish; they offered the traditionalists a home, and re-entrenched. Now this new order became a religious organization as well, blessed and sanctified; songs and slogans became hymns and chants. More of the common people began to join, and one by one the great priestly orders. 

The sages and the sapiarchs blessed us with a name drawn from the annals of history: the Thalmor. In the teaching-halls and amphitheaters and the sacred groves, we were declared to have the blessing of the gods. More than that: a mandate. 

We were Auriel's chosen. 

So the devout joined our throng as well.

The King of Firsthold let all of this go until it was far too late. 

He lost his own life due to his inability to take swift action. According to a thousand-year-old protocol, he was still waiting for his ministers to respond to his memorandum; custom and protocol would give those mer six months. Within six weeks, the king was no longer among the living. That would be my father's troops; he for one was tired of waiting for a response. 

And the ceremoniarchal green flags which had hung since the time of Ayrenn Arana Aldmeri were torn asunder--

\--to be replaced by the banners of the new order: 

Black, for grief and chaos and the void of Oblivion from which our new order was birthed. And the gold star of Auriel's light, shining as the spark which lit our new path.

It should go without saying that we Thalmor keep a keen eye on the doings of the student population, and that it is ill-advised for any young person to participate in activities which would come under our scrutiny -- or worse, to be labeled as a dissident, the punishment for which is extreme, and handed down by our special courts at once, in a time frame which can be measured in mere hours. Not days or decades. 

Not that this has had any moderating effect on the behavior of my youngest sister.

Permit me to be more precise: I have a surfeit of sisters. My mother has borne so many children that the country people and the desperate come to her for her blessing. She has given up on sending them away empty-handed, and has reached an arrangement with the local priests of Mara and Auriel and a couple of delighted florists. I have a house full of sisters. So I had better name her: 

This would be my youngest sister of the full blood, Ceryolwyn.

My father’s last child, born some four months after his demise. 

Blazoned in his image. 

Auriel help us.

Unlike the young person who first raised the banner of the Thalmor, Ceryolwyn maintains an ironclad devotion to family. Or so she maintains. But very much like that young kin-lady, Ceryolwyn has absolutely no compunction about challenging those in authority, no matter the risks. 

On this day of barren midwinter, as her sacred duty mandates, Ceryolwyn had gone to the halls of the dead to petition our House's ancestors. A new tradition, crafted from the ashes of the old. 

Ceryolwyn chose her moment well-- the day and hour when the young might call their elders to account. 

The eldest member of our House was standing near to witness. 

Elodie is our late father's sister, near his own age; his compatriot during the midwifing of the Dominion. For upwards of a dozen decades, she has ranked quite highly amongst the Thalmor: Priestess of Auriel, renowned sage and member of the College of Sapiarchs, Master of memory-magick and its foremost authority. She dislikes tumult and squabbling, of which there has been a great deal, amongst her brother's heirs. She spends little time with family. But even she could not evade this duty. 

Ceryolwyn could have found no better time to force a confrontation. 

"We were told we would at least get letters!" she said. "Notifications. There's been nothing. Mother thinks-- she talks about him like he's in great danger, or maybe already dead. But she doesn't want to say anything-- she fears for the rest of us. He's disappeared. Completely. Elenwen doesn't answer any of our messages." She scowled at Elodie. 

Elodie tried to explain that she herself had nothing to do with rank-and-file Thalmor--but when this failed she tried to rely on the intimidating power of her station. 

Ceryolwyn is a robust girl. Athletic. She is a highly-ranked long-distance amateur sailboat racer. Nothing fazes her. 

"My mother trusted you," she said, darkly. "You sent him to that-- that horrible barbarous place. So this was at your direction? Do you think I will fail to make it known, what you and those harpies have done?" She bared her teeth: "You had better find him quickly. Alive and healthy as well, or they will have more to regret than what my trust-lawyers can do to them." 

Elodie was struck aghast. It had been many years since anyone had spoken to her thus. But a girl who does not fear the ocean has little care for the deep murky currents of the Thalmor. 

Before Elodie could upbraid her for her insolence: "Respect comes where respect is due, Your Sapience. Find him."

My last letter home had been sent many months past, before my arrival in Skyrim. 

I had dropped it into the box of the Thalmor envoy to Wrothgar while I was in Jehanna at our last stop before Solitude Harbor. The ship had stopped for a few days to refit, and I had been going for long walks, trying to regain my land legs. Seeing the office, I’d happened in, and the representative was more than happy to be of assistance to me. 

It was merely a quick note, in which I had advised my family that I would, with any luck, be sent on to my first assignment within the next couple of weeks, after which I would be allowed to write again. Thalmor Justiciars are allowed communication, but it is understood that for new officers, the first few weeks are to be an acclimation period, so letters are restricted. This would be my last opportunity for communication for some time. One of the Justiciars on board ship had so warned me. And then it was time to go, and I re-embarked, on my way to Haafingar and the Thalmor Embassy. 

By now it had been well over a year since my family had heard from me-- or even heard anything of me-- and First Emissary Elenwen had remained silent.

The wintertide celebration for the elite amongst the Thalmor is as lavish as one might imagine, almost two centuries past the austerities of its inception. 

This year the grand banquet was held in the public rooms of my father's palatial country estate, which had been opened for the occasion. Since the estate has been in abeyance, it is not occupied except by its caretakers, but exceptions are made for the necessary familial religious ceremonies. Now and then its public halls are leased by the Thalmor for occasions of state. 

Elodie does not care for the place nor for banquets-- festivals of gluttony and indulgence, is what she terms them-- but this year's celebration coincided not only with the solstice-eve ceremony but with her own naming to yet another bureaucratic post within the ranks of the Thalmor. 

My young half-brother Naris had been brought to this banquet for his one of his first public appearances. He happily plowed his way through the lavish spread-- he is still telling stories of it-- taking full advantage of be-seen-and-not-heard to eavesdrop on the conversation around him. 

There was a great deal of chatter at my absence. Rather more, at Elenwen's. Elodie's appointment had been prestigious. Family is expected to make an appearance. 

It is not expected for high-ranking Thalmor functionaries-- or our youngest and most junior officers-- to go to every major social event, but this one was not only being held in Elodie's honor, it was being held at the estate which is central to our House. The very property over which my elder sisters and I were contending. So my absence was notable. 

My sister Cireen was not present, but that was no surprise. Cireen never attends these boring quasi-governmental functions; and her health will not permit her to take such a lengthy journey to the wilds of Auridon -- though of course she puts up a brave face in Alinor-the-City, as the record of her attendance at the season's frivolities will attest.

Naris likes to refer to himself as keen-eared. 

Vulgar, but beyond a doubt true. 

He spent the entire banquet avidly watching and listening.

My mother, not a member of the Thalmor, nonetheless attends every event to which she is invited. She always brings along various of her progeny; perhaps, as Cireen says, to advertise her great worth. Ellanye or Ceryolwyn or myself would always be present in that number, to show how well she had safeguarded my father's legacy. 

We were, needless to say, supernally well-behaved. 

Generally. 

Ceryolwyn, not always.

Elodie summoned my mother to her and advised that there was only so much that the familiarity of kinship could excuse. By what right did this child make such demands of her? Perhaps my mother ought to have a word with Ceryolwyn about her demeanor. 

Elodie meant to intimidate. 

My mother had originally intended to apologize for the intemperate outburst of her wayward daughter-- but she was angered by the implied threat. She has a mild temper, but not when her children are threatened. Then she becomes a sabrecat. 

"I find myself asking similar questions," she rejoined, in a voice which clearly resounded throughout the entire hall. "Where is Cyrelian? Where is my son?"

My mother had picked her moment well; there are times and places when even the most secluded and revered of the sapiarchs must take part in social duties. Elodie could not simply retreat, and for her to raise her voice in public would be unthinkable. 

Pardon. Elodie was by that time no longer serving as the Sapiarch of Mnemonic Augmentation. She had just vacated that post in order to take up her new position within the ranks of the Thalmor, which was to begin at the first of the year. Her re-emergence from political retirement had caused a brief stir. 

"Still where he ought to be in Skyrim, I would assume." said Elodie. "Nothing's been brought to my attention otherwise." 

"Nothing-- all that we have heard is nothing," my mother advised. "No word at all, not since the Frostfall before last. That is well over a year." 

Heads were turning now.

Elodie was, I think, taken a little aback. 

She disclaimed any knowledge, other than that she had received word of my safe arrival at my first duty post from Elenwenl. Posting information-- that which goes beyond the published record-- should not be included in a personal missive; and it should definitely not get past our censors, but First Emissary Elenwen has always considered herself above such petty restrictions. She had probably slipped a letter into the diplomatic pouch. 

Perhaps his trustees knew more than they were saying? Elodie guessed. 

My trustees do not, needless to say, get along very well with my mother. 

Elodie was immediately advised that the trustees of my father's estate were also starting to ask impossible-to-answer questions of my mother and that they had repeatedly requested meetings with the First Emissary. Missives which had gone unanswered. Oh, they knew where Elenwen was-- she regularly sent in reports from the field-- but none of those reports had mentioned me. 

So my trustees didn't know where I was, either.

Time moves differently for our elders; Elodie was surprised to learn how much of it had passed. She told my mother that there was no cause for concern: I had never been on the missing-persons list or accounted for as out on frolic; and certainly everyone would have been notified if there were a notice of death. 

Why was my mother so concerned, she wanted to know. 

"A rumor reached me," said my mother, grimly. Nothing more. 

Elodie shrugged. "Why put credence in some story from a disreputable source--" 

Naris knew full well that the source was our own stepfather, via his kinswoman the Sapiarch of Selenology. She still keeps her rank in the Thalmor, maintaining field agents amongst the Khajiit in case of further lunar aberrations. Naris later reported that he could barely keep still. Thankfully he did. 

The Khajiiti informal intelligence network is of great value to my immediate family and it would not do to tip our hand. 

My mother expressed her continuing displeasure. 

Heads turned again. Normally my mother is not so emphatic.

"Very well," Elodie said. "I will make inquiries." 

So, Elodie would have her aide-- a Bosmer who had been a very senior Justiciar-- obtain permission to check the duty lists. Even if I had a restricted assignment, there ought to be some information available via official inquiry, such as the general geographic area where I was to be assigned, and when my last check-in had occurred. 

In the meantime, perhaps my mother could speak to Chief Justiciar Talonreeve Maras. Duty assignments are not generally within the Talons' purview. Not until there is an unusual incident report.

Talonreeve Maras is the senior Thalmor official in charge of dealing with those little issues that crop up from time to time and that might warrant dismissal or re-education or execution of a Justiciar. It is not true that the doings of Justiciars go unpoliced. We have our own courts to root out the unfit, the doctrinally unsound, and those whose actions are deemed adverse to the interests of the Dominion. 

All such cases are brought to Talonreeve Maras’ attention. 

My mother said this about him: he listens closely.

I nearly had heart-spasms when I learned of it, but of course my mother has no fear of him. 

Talonreeve Maras has no authority over her. 

In fact, he was quite gracious. He apologized to her and immediately sent a courier to his office to review the latest updates to the missing-person lists. A Talonreeve inquiry obviates the need to seek permissions.

But the only information that his courier could give my mother was that my name did not appear on any of the personnel lists.

Anywhere. 

There are several ways via which Justiciars and our adjunct soldiery can be accounted for-- and my name was nowhere to be seen. I was not listed as a missing person; I had not been noted as out on frolic or as discharged due to incapacity or insubordination or death. My duty assignment was not listed, or noted as 'restricted'. So far as the Thalmor were concerned, I did not have a duty assignment. It had been lost-- or perhaps it had never been drafted. 

The courier had also found that I'd had no training officer assigned other than, presumably, First Emissary Elenwen. He assured my mother that this is just a formality-- all of the newly arrived Justiciars sent to Skyrim are assigned to its First Emissary, until such time as she sends each on to his or her actual duty assignment. 

I was not stationed at the Thalmor Embassy, or at the Thalmor Headquarters, or even in Haafingar itself; that would have put me under the Third Emissary's command, and I was not on his personnel roster. Nor was I assigned to Commander Ondolemar in Markarth-- that is our other major installation-- or on any officer's field assignment list.

The First Emissary and her staff re-assign the new Justiciars as needed, and send the requisite paperwork along. Except for me. First Emissary Elenwen had somehow neglected to get my documents sent in. An oversight. An understandable one, perhaps, in a busy office, where one is a face-without-a-name, and there are perhaps dozens of young officers coming and going... 

The courier, not knowing, tried to so placate my mother. 

She exploded: "There is no way that she could forget about him! He is her brother!" 

The courier immediately excused himself to go get Talonreeve Maras.

Talonreeve Maras listened to my mother's suspicions for some time. He was particularly interested in the status of the litigation involving my father's estate, and in the fact that First Emissary Elenwen had refused to respond to family inquiries-- even from my trustees and the guardians of the estate. 

Then he muttered something uncouth and advised my mother that his office would be looking into this irregularity. Immediately. He said something about financial conflicts-of-interest being his bread-and-butter. He looked pleased. 

He would send a messenger soonest. 

His courier was rather relieved to have not been personally sent tonight. 

Naris thought it was all very curious that the Talonreeve's courier had been able to analyze that much documentation within three-quarters of an hour. His suspicion, and mine, was that my trustees had long since been in communication with the Talonreeve and that my disappearance had been under investigation for some time.

My mother returned to inform Elodie that there had been no further word of me since shortly after my arrival in Haafingar; and that per Thalmor records, I had never been assigned anywhere. Talonreeve Maras was going to check and see if the First Emissary had even signed the documentation so that I could receive my pay. His suspicion was that she had not. And my trustees, of course, could not find me to turn over my quarterly funds. 

Now Elodie expressed alarm. Young males out on frolic flout authority as they please; but one must nuzzle up close to nurse a stipend. Wherever I was, I had no money.

Once the speeches and toasts and congratulations had finished, Elodie asked my mother to join her below in the grand bath. 

Naris was deeply disappointed that he could not think of a reasonable excuse to follow. He settled for dessert and half a bottle of sparkling wine.

Elodie and my mother went down to the grand baths near the Ancestral Hall, where the fountains and waterfalls defeat all attempts at eavesdropping, magickal or otherwise.

Elodie said that the most reasonable explanation for my absence was that I had gone with Elenwen on her progress from city to city in Skyrim, seeking eyewitnesses to the dragon attacks and more information about the magickal beasts. 

"Wouldn't she have mentioned him in one of her dispatches?" questioned my mother. "Or her letters?" 

Elenwen tends to wax verbose, describing everyone's activities down to the bootblack. And although she hates us-- myself and my mother and my younger sisters-- she fulfills her familial duty to correspond with a breezy cheeriness that belies her true opinion.

Elodie had no real answer for this. 

My mother reminded her-- the Sapiarch of Memory!-- of all the ugly little incidents that had occurred during the course of the probate litigation, and the three or four times that I'd had to move schools thanks to some mysterious breach of security. I would have had several of my mage-credentials by now were it not for these disruptions; as it was, we had all felt it best that I go into the Thalmor Academy. 

"I told you not to put him anywhere near Elenwen’s reach, and what's the first thing you do? Send him to the most dangerous war-zone on the continent under her command. Forsworn. Stormcloak rebels. Those horrible mudcrabs--"

Elodie did not believe that Elenwen would care to harm me-- wouldn't it be contrary to the First Emissary's own interests? After all, if Elenwen were the one responsible for all of the Thalmor Justiciars in Skyrim, wouldn't my getting lost or killed be thought her own failure? Certainly her lapse would be accounted a disgrace to the family…

"Accident," said my mother. "Accident or some other incident ascribed to his fault directly. I knew she would make it look like an accident." 

"Is it possible that he just wandered off on frolic?" wondered Elodie. 

My mother hesitated. But-- "My son knows his duty," she maintained. "No. Elenwen took the opportunity to put him out of her way."

"Don't you think that the estate administrators would be wary of that? Should Elenwen or Cireen fall under suspicion, you know what is likely to happen." Elodie adamantly denied that Elenwen could ever be so stupid. 

As to whether Elenwen could be that malicious... Elodie remained silent. As Grandmaster of Memory, without a doubt she was recalling every little detail that had ever wafted up to her in regards to Elenwen's character and her methods of operation. Things that my mother would not have known. She frowned. 

Of course my Aunt Elodie did not mention my next-eldest sister Cireen. 

Cireen is quite capable of being stupid.

My mother said little more.

Elodie plied her with assurances.

But there had been assurances at the beginning, when I had gone away. My mother had had little trust for Elodie then. She had rather less, now.

Elodie wanted to know what news or rumor had come to my mother, to cause her such distress. 

My mother would not say. 

She held firm.

"Here we stand in a tomb," said my mother, grimly. "And you ask why I have bad dreams?" 

Elodie hesitated. She could not argue versus intuition. 

My mother looked at her, unbowed. And then she said: "Joral is standing for his candidacy in the new term. I trust we have your support?" 

After decades of such horse-trading, Elodie did not even blink. "Of course," she said. 

My mother inclined her head. "We thank you for it. Felicitations on your latest appointment." 

As if Elodie's latest assignment happened to be no more than what it was reputed to be: the sort of low-effort position offered to a well-reputed lady who is nearing full retirement. The sort of office that has a view of the park, cushioned chairs and pretty pens and pristine desks. Most assuredly, it was not-- but there is no other polite way to acknowledge it, when it so happens that one of us is called forward to don the mask.

When one's greatest fear seems to have come to pass, what is left to fear? 

My mother said this marked the moment: she was no longer afraid. She was angry.

Nor was she fooled by Elodie's placations. I was the one who was named as my father's sole heir, not any of my sisters. Either I would prevail in the litigation and take all, or it would become an inheritance split five ways -- or sixteen, or twenty, depending on whether the courts determined that the secondary and tertiary heirs qualified for immediate shares. The estate would be sold and subdivided. The legacy which my father sought so desperately to preserve would be divvied up amongst this swarm of heirs and fall through their grasping fingers like sand. It would be lost. 

My aunt Elodie was not an heir and would take nothing. She had always declared that she would support my father's final wishes. If she were in connivance with my elder sisters, it would not be over something as trivial as money. 

To my mother, it did not matter any longer. 

What is wealth, without life? 

For my sake-- that is, for myself and my younger sisters' sake, my mother had always chosen to abstain from these games. But I was beyond her help now. And the youngest of my father's children was now nearly grown. 

My mother began to make her own plans.

When I was a small child, I resented Elodie deeply for the sniping comments she would make about my home. What had she called the grand bath? A monument to malignant self-aggrandizement. It had stung. My father laughed it off. This place was built with gifts. Gifts that were a physical representation of the love that the people of Alinor bore my father. Should he hoard such a treasure away unseen? 

Why should we not gift back to the gods and our ancestors the magnificence they deserve? 

Perhaps he recognized even then-- as Elodie still does not-- that the hour of the iconoclast had passed. 

My father did not, after all, earn his name by breaking tombs. He earned it by crafting a vision of our future that would render us whole again. Magnificence and beauty are ennobling. Or so they say, when they speak of Cyranrir Ata-Aldmeris. 

It hurt, when I had to leave this place. They buried him here. 

I was allowed to return here for the midwinter ritual, of course, once I had come of age for it. 

So I too have stood beside the tombs, to listen to that resounding silence.

Some mer carry the weight of hundreds of generations. My father resigned from his own House; forsook its ancestors and its name. That House is gone with Artaeum. I know little of it, save for their names, and I am lucky to have even that. My father wiped that slate. So as far as generations go, I carry but one. 

And yet the weight of that lone generation is crushing. 

No one has ever asked. 

Until I left Alinor, I had never had sufficient latitude to entertain my own thoughts on the matter. It is not just the wealth and property at stake; it is a great deal of influence and power. I could open my hand and let it go. I could be free. It would take no more than one letter. 

But I suspect-- as did that young kin-lady-- that it will be needful in this coming storm. 

And so it is my burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [mimosa-supernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova) for beta'ing this chapter!
> 
> Next: Ahtar is struggling to care for a rapidly-declining Cyrelian, when his old friend Jarl Korir comes back to Winterhold. Korir's daughter is very ill. Together they find a way to force the College of Winterhold to come to their assistance.


	2. Ahtar: Impasse. (Winterhold, Turdas 15th of Frostfall 4e202)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of a new friend, Nelacar, Ahtar does his best to care for a moribund Cyrelian. When Jarl Korir comes home, he sympathizes, as his young daughter is also struggling with a chronic illness and the mages of Winterhold have refused to provide any magickal or alchemical services to the people of his hold. He and Ahtar come up with a plan to get someone's attention up at the College of Winterhold... and finally Advisor Ancano comes down to deal with the matter of this lost Justiciar.

Winter had begun in earnest.

Ahtar shivered.

He would have to find more work, when he could-- it would be difficult to get by with just a shirt and doublet, in the coming weeks.

He finished with the last rack of wood, carefully took the axe and splitter back to the side porch where they belonged, and rubbed at his hand. This kind of work was new to him, and despite the thick callous, he could feel a couple of hot spots on his palm where blisters were rising.

When Ahtar came in the side door, he had to turn around almost immediately and step back down onto the stone-tiled area near the entrance, where the racks and pegs and straw mats were. He frowned, reproving himself: this was a needful habit, here in this place. Learn it. 

He hung up his cloak after shaking it off and began to brush the rest of the snow off his arms and front, stomping it off his boots as he did. He wiped his boots clean as might-be on the mats before stepping up into the room proper, checking the dagger at his side as he did so.

He went back up the steps into the main taproom, and surveyed the room. It was mostly empty. Dagur was working at the counter in the back. Ahtar waited a moment or two, but no one else came in. 

No more excuses to dally. He went on into Nelacar's chamber.

The Altmer mage was sitting in his usual chair, moodily working his way through a cured-meat sandwich.

“He hasn’t moved,” Nelacar reported. “Needs to be cleaned up again. I just went to grab something to eat and sat down, and it happened. Didn’t feel like dealing with it just that second. Sorry.”

“Thanks, I got it,” said Ahtar, absently. 

He was looking over the small stock of potions. They'd tried most of the things on the table-- all of it courtesy of Nelacar. 

None of it had helped Cyrelian much. 

Ahtar went to go get what was needed; the warm water and the cloths and so on.

When Ahtar set the furs and blankets aside, the elf's eyes slitted open briefly, but there was no real awareness behind them. Ahtar touched his neck; spoke his name. Nothing.

“It’s all right," Ahtar said to Nelacar, as he worked. "Not much of a mess. Not a lot in, not a lot out. Did he take anything at all for you?”

“Not really," said Nelacar. "Didn't even open his eyes for me." He sat and watched, continuing to eat his meat and bread with all of the jaded weariness of a soldier in the field. "Tried to give him some honey-water, but he just turned his head aside. I didn't want to force it and make him choke."

Ahtar took the dirty cloths and washwater away, and went to wash his hands. 

"He rolled over," he said with surprise, as he returned.

"Tried to talk, too, but nothing that made any sense," said Nelacar. "If he's a little more awake, maybe try again?"

"Yeah, I'll try the mead, think he takes it better," said Ahtar. Probably they should only be giving him broth, but...mead was what was available, right this moment.

While Ahtar was up at the front, he fetched Nelacar a mug. Dagur saw him draw the cups at the mead-tap, but said nothing. He made no move towards his tally-slate.

"Appreciated," said Ahtar, as he went on by. 

Dagur wasn't any too keen on having his establishment turned into a sickroom, especially for people with no money, but Ahtar couldn't fault his hospitality. Ahtar tried not to impose too much, and spent a few hours every day doing some of the heavier or more unpleasant chores. In return he got to sleep in the warm, and at least one hot meal per day.

Ahtar got a few swallows of mead into Cyrelian, but then the elf whimpered and thrashed about, pushing the spoon away and turning his face into the pillow. He was shivering again, though his skin was hot and dry to the touch.

Ahtar pulled the furs back up around him and stood for a few minutes, listening. 

“Thanks again for taking over for a bit. And--” he hesitated. “For all the rest of it.” 

Nelacar shrugged it off, as though he’d done no more than sit in this chair for the past few minutes. He’d been helping right alongside Ahtar ever since he'd arrived at the Frozen Hearth with Cyrelian, the unconscious elf slung over a borrowed mule; and on zero previous acquaintance had volunteered to give up the use of his own room and bed. If not for Nelacar... Ahtar didn't like to think about it.

“It’s nothing,” murmured Nelacar, returning his attention to his mug. He yawned. "I fear it’s not going to be a lengthy imposition.” 

“Yeah,” sighed Ahtar. “I don’t like the way his breathing sounds.” Rough and raspy, like Cyr's lungs were giving up along with everything else. He rubbed his own face. “Make any headway in getting that Thalmor asshole to come down here?”

Nelacar sniffed. “That Thalmor asshole’s certainly never listened to me before. Nothing’s changed. I went up there personally the second time and pounded on his door, but he didn’t answer."

"Is he even there?" asked Ahtar.

"No idea," Nelacar admitted. "No one up there saw him leave, but I have to wonder. I haven't seen him in the Arcaneum for a few days. Then again, I've mostly been here." 

“Korir's back in town," said Ahtar. "Haran told me. Think that was him coming in here a minute ago. If you don't mind spelling me a bit longer, I can try to talk to him about the situation."

Nelacar silently handed up his mug for Ahtar to take back to the counter.

Ahtar watched from the doorway and waited.

Korir was happily complaining about the new residents of the Frozen Hearth-- more damned elves!-- and impugning the reputation of Dagur's best stout.

Dagur was briskly responding in kind, and threatening to make Korir slog his way back to the jarl's longhouse to cook his own lonely supper.

Ahtar smiled. It was like old times. And that gave him a thought.

Ahtar's days in the Legion dealing with rowdy junior officers-- not to mention the year he'd spent hunting Forsworn-- had granted him the ability to move near-silently. Dagur'd been a training-sergeant; he was grinning, but he kept up his end of the boisterous argument without giving the game away.

"Hey!" Ahtar barked, right behind the young jarl's ear, just to watch him leap skyward.

He and Dagur were still laughing helplessly when Korir grabbed him by the face, patted his cheek, and then kissed it vigorously, in the Breton fashion.

"Talos wept!" cried Korir, happily. "It's Sulla! Heard things were crazy in Solitude, but I had no idea you were coming here."

He pulled Ahtar into a hard embrace. 

"Sorry-- forgot," he said. "Name and all."

"Yeah, yeah, it's all right," said Ahtar, returning it. "Hasn't even been ten years and here I am, scuttling on back on my belly. Like a mudcrab. Just like you said." 

Korir, damn him, was if anything even better-looking, though maybe that was just-- he seemed better-settled now, Ahtar thought. Maturity and the jarldom sat well on him.

Korir laughed ruefully along with him, and thumped his sides and back, hard enough to echo in his chest.

Then Korir stepped back, grinning. "You look good! After what I heard..." What he meant was, pretty good after having heard that Ahtar'd had his face burnt off. 

Did you bring everyone else?" Korir said, enthusiastically, and looked around the room. "That's odd, because I don't hear Jala-- I'd expect to hear her even out in the cowshed, man, I--"

Ahtar caught at his shoulders.

"They're gone," he told the young jarl, all mirth gone. "Jala's on her way to Cyrodiil--gods, I hope so-- but the rest of her family, they're--"

"Thadric?!" Jala's brother had been about Korir's age, and just about as lively and enthusiastic.

Ahtar shook his head.

Korir grabbed him about the waist and clung on to him, his face pressed against Ahtar's chest, eyes closed.

Then he shook his head, minutely.

Ahtar patted him between the shoulder-blades.

"Happened in the first couple skirmishes," Ahtar said, roughly. "Couldn't wait to enlist, got a bunch of his friends together to form a little scout militia-- they found the Stormcloaks, all right. That little corner of Whiterun Hold hard by the Pale." He sniffed, deeply. "Thank Kyne her parents never knew; they were out towards Wayrest that year. Never came home. Bad storm, and the ship foundered."

Korir sighed. 

"Aldis and all of them?" he asked, words directed towards Ahtar's jerkin.

"Guess I've been a bad correspondent," said Ahtar. "Helena-- that was about five years back. Childbirth. Baby didn't live either. Their little girl's up with family in Bruma. Better off there. Nolla's worthless man got himself drowned fishing and she remarried; she's in High Rock someplace now. All of the rest of the Forty-- well, you know where Ulfric's guys went. And ah-- Aldis..." Ahtar sighed, ruefully.

"You were right," he admitted. "About him. We gotta talk about that. Later."

And then, awkwardly, since the young jarl did not seem to be letting him go: "How about your people?" he asked, and remembered the last time he'd seen Korir, the radiant joy on the young thane's face as he showed off the infant: "Where's your boy?"

And immediately bit his tongue-- he'd heard about the jarl's sick daughter; that was why the wife wasn't up here with him. Had something happened to his son?

“With his grandfather,” said Korir, pleased that Ahtar'd remembered. 

Ahtar exhaled relief. 

“Skald doesn’t want to let him out of his sight," said Korir. "Fine by me-- he’s one of the heirs to the Pale. Who knows, maybe Skald’ll have him acclaimed and someday Winterhold’ll make a real kingdom again.” Korir stepped back. “Didn’t want him up here when--" He hesitated. "You know.” 

"I heard," Ahtar said, immediately.

"Thaena took Yllga to Solitude," said Korir. "To see the priests. But I guess you already knew that--"

"Yeah," said Ahtar. "Heard about it."

Korir stilled. "I-- thought..." He looked up at Ahtar. "Thought maybe Thaena'd sent you on here? Thought that's why you came here."

"No," said Ahtar. "Don't think she would've known me to talk to me. She's the only one of Skald's girls I never met." 

He shrugged, regretfully. "I should've come in to say hello, that day." Ahtar hadn't wanted to; he'd been stubborn about it, and 'Stavan hadn't been there anymore to insist that he stop being an ass. "Pretty sure I saw her, there at the Skeever," Ahtar said. "Last time would've been couple days before the city went over. Looked a little tired, but otherwise well. Didn't see your little girl."

"They made it to the Temple of the Divines all right; I heard from her pretty regularly. Then no more letters. I hoped it was just all that chaos." Korir rubbed his face. "Then her father sent somebody up here to find out if I knew anything. He's really worried."

"Wasn't so bad as you might think, up that way. Hardly any fighting to speak of," Ahtar advised him. "Not when I left, and from what Skald says, it wasn't much of a standoff once the Legion got there. Tullius pretty much let all of Ulfric's men go." He grinned. "Smart. Would've been a slog. Think Tullius's thinking hearts-and-minds might still work." 

He gripped Korir's arm: "Skald's working on getting them home. Sent a friend of mine over there to-- ah--help facilitate it; someone who knows that territory."

"So you think they'll be all right."

"I know they will," said Ahtar, trying to sound as confident as he could. 

Inwardly, he was less so; Marcus had better not be fooling around out there... and as to Erdi, Ahtar only hoped that being back on her own home ground gave her some modicum of restraint. Still, she wasn't a fool. There was that.

"Skald sent over an Imperial Legate and her household, to sweeten that deal," Ahtar told him. "The Stormcloaks held a number of Imperial officers for ransom and sold them back without too much fuss, so Tullius returned the favor. Might be a little negotiation, but it shouldn't be a problem."

A low groan from Nelacar's room was a welcome distraction.

"Be right back," said Ahtar, hastening away.

He didn’t know what it was, nightmare or memory or just the air working its way out of the elf’s abused lungs-- he definitely had the rattles now, no doubt about that. Nelacar helped him to roll Cyrelian up onto his side, propping him with the cushions. Ahtar tried to get a few more drops of mead into his mouth, with no real response. Cyrelian had gone silent again. 

Now his skin was blazing hot to the touch.

At Nelacar's suggestion, Ahtar pulled the furs aside and wrapped him up in one of Nelacar's wool blankets instead.

“I’ll recite to him again,” Nelacar suggested wearily. Some devotional or other in Old Aldmeris. It might give Cyrelian some comfort, Ahtar supposed. If he could hear it.

"If you like," said Ahtar. "Couldn't hurt."

“Damn mages, sitting up there in their tower-- what good are they?” said Korir, in angry sympathy. He was about as impressed with the denizens of the College of Winterhold as Adept Nelacar was. Less so. “I tried before when Yllga first got sick, came up here all the way from Dawnstar to get help. Sent another message once I got named jarl. Not even the courtesy of a response! Nobody would help then; nobody’s going to help now. Thaena had to take her all the way to Solitude.”

“Doesn’t your court wizard have any healing?” Ahtar had never heard of such a thing; it was generally the first requirement for a household's mage, right up there with being able to discern the use of hostile illusion magick.

The jarl laughed. “Seloth? Malur Seloth's no mage.” He snorted. “Thinks I don’t know. Ha. Best kind of court wizard, in my opinion-- works arcane miracles, all right. With my account-books. No magick.”

“Yeah?” Ahtar drank his ale, appreciatively; it had been the jarl’s treat and a luxury he couldn't himself afford. “How’d you end up with him, anyways?” Because he’d briefly seen the thin-cheeked, sallow Dunmer; definitely not the jarl’s sort.

“Thaena’s man,” said Jarl Korir. “Came along from Dawnstar to wait for her here, been here ever since.”

Ahtar grunted dubiously.

“Pretty good deal all told,” said Korir, untroubled by Ahtar’s opinion. “Lawthane who comes along with a competent steward-- no worries about paying him. No worries about what he might be salting away for himself. And the Azura pilgrims give me no trouble; not like with the last jarl. He deals with ‘em.” 

He seemed oddly proud.

They were pretty much alone in the taproom and Dagur was paying them no mind, cleaning mugs at the far end of the room.

“He your man too?” Ahtar dared.

That won him a quick, speculative glance that was as good as a denial, but--

“Mind your own cattle," said Korir, attempting a jarl's severe and dignified countenance. This failed utterly, as Korir snickered and then burst into a sudden laugh: "You know how I feel about elves!"

“Heh. Which kinda elves?” Ahtar wanted to know. “The kind that want to murder all of us--” a jerk of his thumb towards the blameless Nelacar’s room; or the kind that sit up there”-- towards the College and its Dunmer-- “and do nothing for us? Or the ones who go gallivanting and poaching through the forest and--”

Korir snorted. “I got no use for any of ‘em."

They were pretty much alone in the taproom, except for a couple of old men gossiping. Dagur was paying them no mind, cleaning mugs at the far end of the room.

"Surprised you're not out there with Ulfric," said Ahtar, drinking. "Said he was gonna keep you on staff--"

"Wouldn't mind it," agreed Korir. "Gets dull here. And I hate just sitting here not knowing what goes on, but that's doing my part now, hah?" He looked at Ahtar. "The Stormcloak wanted somebody reliable holding this place, and he's not got a lot of cousins, so I guess I'm the man on the spot." He frowned. "Not near enough men to hold it, but at least I've got Eastmarch at my back and my father-in-law at the front gate." He laughed. "Not that holding this place means anything, from a strategic--"

"Yeah," agreed Ahtar. 

If not for the College, Winterhold would be no more than yet another tumbledown ruin in the middle of nowhere. A few remaining families; a small inn and even smaller makeshift harbor; the jarl's longhouse and residence. And the cows. That was about it, for Winterhold. He took another drink.

"Ulfric name an heir yet?" he wanted to know. Because Korir was probably the front-runner in that race; there was 'Stavan's son and daughter, but they were-- Ahtar took a breath, and held it. They were not Ahtar's secret to tell.

Korir shushed him-- though he seemed pleased. 

Korir was close enough kin to the Stormcloaks-- that had gotten him the thanedom and the marriage that had led to the jarldom. It wasn’t hard to guess what Skald and Thaena and Korir were playing for, when they’d decided to yield to Ulfric Stormcloak’s version of courtship. Skald in particular had been singing the warlord’s praises day and night, as though Ulfric were Tiber Septim come again, though this time with the sun shining out of his ass.

Another, more meaningful press of that lean thigh against his, and wasn’t that tempting, but: “Nice thought,” agreed Ahtar. “Not the right time. Looks like I’m going to be up here for a bit-- maybe even the whole winter-- and who’ve I got to work for, except for Dagur, and you?” 

He drank again, savoring the hop-taste. “Had that kinda thing go all wrong, last time. Long story.” 

Korir subsided. He hadn’t been any too serious about it, and Ahtar’s best guess was that he’d just been seeking the companionship, what with all that was going on. So he didn’t move away. The two of them sat, working on their drinks, listening to the wood crack and pop in the hearth and the soft conversation of the locals.

Ahtar got up a few times to deal with Cyrelian. The elf didn't wake at all for him, though he managed to lick a few drops off Ahtar's fingers. It was only instinct, Ahtar knew.

Nelacar was dozing in his chair; Ahtar let him be.

He came back, and grabbed himself a bread-roll from the basket on the counter; Dagur nodded and went to chalk it. 

"Sorry," Ahtar said to Korir. He consumed the food in four quick bites. "Soup's not up till tonight, and I'm starving." He brushed crumbs from his jerkin. "So you were saying--"

They'd been talking about Ulfric's peculiar new ranking-system for his officers; even the damned Thalmor still used some of the old ranks of the Imperials... or at least officer-designations that made logical sense. Ahtar privately thought it was ridiculous-- it had been everything he could do not to laugh at, say, Thane Yorvik's new rank. Snowhammer. Sounded like some idiot Breton's version of a Nordic myth-song for the stage. Also he thought the dearth of mid-range ranks was going to brew trouble in the end--

Korir agreed with him about that last part. The debate carried them the rest of the evening, till Korir got up to make the short walk back to his nearly-empty longhouse and the dubious company of Malur Seloth. Ahtar wrapped up in the ratty old furs he'd been lent and moved Nelacar's chair closer to the bed, so he could doze whilst still being alert for sudden changes. Nelacar went down to a warm basement alcove to nap on a straw-padded bedroll.

Ahtar would go and sleep in the early morning whilst Nelacar minded Cyrelian and did his own work at his table; then Ahtar would take his turn again around noon, or whenever it was that Nelacar needed to go pursue his own business at the College.

A couple of days later--

Ahtar heard voices rising, out in the main taproom. He went out to see what was going on, but he saw that Korir had already come in and was taking care of it-- interrupting a heated discussion between a Bosmeri fur-trapper and one of the local thanes-- well, the sole local thane, stubbornly still wearing his threadbare court finery.

Ahtar watched for a little while but it wasn't particularly interesting. If he'd had any coin, he might talk to the Bosmer himself, buy himself a bearskin or something to makeshift a cloak out of; but he didn't. 

He got more of the hot porridge-- it was cheaper than real food, and filling enough-- and settled himself down to finish it. Nelacar was up at the College again to complain, and Ahtar wished him better luck than the last few tries, but didn't hold out much hope. The elf was-- well, he was quiet now, at least. Sleeping, or what passed for it.

Dagur came by and they talked about another couple of jobs Ahtar could do, over the next few days. Dagur didn't think it'd be advisable for Ahtar to go up wolf-hunting on his own.

A group of miners came in together, bringing in the cold with them. Ahtar ceded the table to them, taking a chair closer to the fire.

"Every little squabble's my problem now, I guess," said Korir, returning to him. "When did you think you were going to head up to see the Stormcloak? Might want to go now, before the weather comes down in earnest."

"Not yet," said Ahtar.

"I had a favor to ask you, the other day--but you already answered my question," Ahtar said. "If the College people won't bother to come down here to help out a jarl, they're not going to bother having any dealings with me." 

Ahtar rubbed at his scar, where the cold always bothered it. He sighed. “So afraid that he wouldn’t get here on time. I never asked for what. Knew this was coming--should have listened.”

“What do you care, anyway--" said Korir. "I know that elf saved your life, but you got him here, didn’t you?” Korir gestured. “You did your part. Your debt’s paid. If you’re going up to Ulfric’s--”

Ahtar nodded. “I know. Better to not have to deal with a complication.” He cleared his throat, and began to attend to unrolling his sleeves, carefully reknotting the strings which held his cuffs.

"I've been a complication," Ahtar said, under his breath.

Korir winced.

He was thinking about the bad old days, Ahtar knew, that crazy time right after 'Stavan had-- and Ulfric's command had been at each other's throats, and--

"Hey," said Ahtar, to get him off that. "You think you got troubles. I can't disappoint Jala."

Korir squinted at him.

"Jala--” Ahtar shook his head. “Oh, she’s going to be pissed. All but wrapped my elf up like a Saturalia present and handed him over to me with ribbons on. I can hear her now--” He mimicked her raucous voice: “‘Didn’t mean to give you a chore!’” Oh, gods, I miss her.” He bowed his head. "I'm just lost."

Korir said nothing, which was politic.

"Sorry," Korir said after a moment. "Not really attending. Thaena just chased me out of the house; Yllga's been nothing but worse ever since they got back yesterday. She doesn't need me in there panicking, I guess." He tried to smile. It wasn't a good expression.

"Want to come see him?" Ahtar asked.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Not too good," was Korir's only comment. Other than: "Gods! It reeks in here. How do you--"

Ahtar rubbed at his scar. "Haven't smelt too much since this happened," he said. "It's tolerable." 

There wasn't any sort of mess at present. He rolled the elf back back over onto his belly and stuck the cushions underneath him in a different arrangement, so he wouldn't get sores. Haran had explained all of that to him. She was the best Winterhold had for a healer, but all she could really offer was some spiced mead and common sense.

“Well," said Ahtar, after he was settled back down in his chair. "Gonna head up to the College gates again soon. Make some noise. See what happens.”

"Suit yourself,” said Korir. “I won’t mind any ruckus. Still-- try not to get anything set on fire.” He glanced up at Ahtar’s face, his dark eyes sympathetic. “For what it’s worth, I hope they listen.”

“Hey, you know what...” said Ahtar, consideringly. “I got an idea, if you’re willing to hear it out. And I’m pretty sure I’d have to come to you about it soon, anyhow-- Dagur’s not putting up with us much longer.” He grinned, maliciously. “Let’s put my elf in the same room as your Yllga-- that way if I can get a Restoration mage in there, maybe they’ll see to her, too. Won’t even have to cross the road.” He drank again.

“Since that seems to be too damned much for them,” Korir agreed, savagely. 

The mages of Winterhold had no qualms, in calm weather, about coming down to the Frozen Hearth and drinking until morning. Using magicka to salve their hangovers. But sparing a half-hour to attend the sick? The dying? Too much.

Korir rather liked Ahtar's idea.

Dagur... the proprietor of the Frozen Hearth probably would not like it too much. The mages represented a substantial part of his income.

So they didn't tell him.

The weather was if anything greyer. Colder.

“Good luck with that,” snapped Faralda. “That’s what he said: ‘And how exactly did you come to believe that it is my obligation to deal with this mer? He’s not one of MY agents. I don’t have any Justiciars under my authority at all. Apply to Markarth. Or Solitude.’ Prick.”

“Did you try mentioning the First--”

Faralda exploded: “Yes! I tried mentioning the First Emissary, do you think I’m a dolt! I did it when Nelacar first sent me up there-- he just gave me that look and said that he’s never played politics, and he isn’t going to start now.”

“Thank you for trying, at least,” said Ahtar, politely. “Going to have to ask you to step aside, now.”

“They’re not going to let you in there, you know,” said Faralda, still barring the way. “You’re not one of their students or staff. Or a mage. Or anything." She hesitated, looking at him, perhaps realizing that she was either going to have to charge up a spell, or get pushed aside against one of the stone walls. 

“The gates up ahead are magically locked,” Faralda warned, holding up her hands. “Even if you get past me, you can’t get in.” She allowed just a trace of magicka to flicker at her fingertips.

Ahtar chuckled. "Do I look like the kind of guy who gets scared of a little mage-fire?"

"Nooo," she said, thoughtfully, backing away a little more. "No you don't."

"Relax," said Ahtar. "I ain't gonna crush your neck and throw you off the bridge."

Oddly, Faralda did not relax.

Ahtar looked up at the row of gates which barred passage. "Magickally locked, you said?"

"Ye--es," said Faralda, even more nervous. Mage-fire flickered up into her hands, which she snapped closed, to smother the flames, like fiddling with a clasp-knife.

"I suppose you don't carry the key," Ahtar mused.

"No!" she said quickly. And: "I only ward the first two gates," she said. "There are other watchers up ahead. And on the battlements."  
Ahtar took a look for himself. He didn't see anyone else on the walkway, so he figured that was a lie. He tugged at the gate. It didn't budge. Some invisible mechanism held it fast, as if it were welded shut.

He walked back down, but halted before stepping off the bridge itself.

"Oh. Yeah. Forgot." He grinned at her. "You mages like the beer at the Frozen Hearth?" 

Faralda expressed cautious agreement. She was keeping a great deal of space between herself and him, now.

"That's too bad," said Ahtar. "I got a new concession from the jarl." He folded his arms, standing directly between Faralda and the path down into the village. "He's charging toll." 

Faralda frowned. 

Ahtar said nothing. 

Faralda kept frowning.

Eventually Faralda gave in and asked: "What now?"

“A tax. On this bridge,” Ahtar clarified. 

“I’m sorry, I--” 

“He figures since you mages ain’t got no use for Winterhold..." He paused. "Oh. Hey, Nelacar. About time."

The Altmer mage said. "Sorry. Thought he was starting to stir about for a moment, so it took me a bit--" 

"No change?" asked Ahtar. 

"Not really," said Nelacar.

"Who'd you leave him with?" Ahtar asked, and winced at the answer.

"Guess it'll be alright for a couple hours," he said.

Ahtar turned back to Faralda: "Since none of you are going to help anybody in Winterhold, and you know, be part of its community-- you’ve got no reason to be in Winterhold." 

He smiled, nastily. 

"So...if you need supplies... I dunno. I guess we got a nice little impasse. Make a portal. Use up all of your magicka to sail your boats in winter through all the ice. But you're getting nothing in via this bridge. Or the docks here. Or the road to Dawnstar. Birna's not going to help you." He let the smile grow broad enough to let the scar tissue twist his face. "No more drinking nights at the tavern."

Faralda looked at Nelacar, aggrieved. “This is going to hurt you all much more than the College," she began.

“Oh? Only briefly,” said Nelacar. “I imagine the Thalmor will be along to take care of this standoff shortly. Ancano can give his justifications to his own superiors.” He allowed a smug little smile of his own. “My fervent hope is that I get to watch.”

While Faralda agreed with this last bit, in principle...her brow furrowed. Why would the Thalmor even care?

“Our friend in there--” Ahtar pointed towards the jarl’s longhouse. “He’s the one the Thalmor up in Haafingar been shitting themselves over. Knocking on every door in Solitude, making demands that caused a riot. Folks took that real ill. So my thinking is-- he’s not just a Justiciar. They turn up dead now and then. Never that much of a fuss. So he’s somebody real important to them. You go on up there, ask the Advisor if he wants all the rest of the First Emissary’s Justiciars swarming this place. We left word for them with Elisif that he was coming here to the College. So they know where he went. And when they don’t hear from him-- they’ll be here soon.”

He crossed his arms. “In the meantime, nobody else’s crossing this bridge. Order of the jarl.”

Faralda sighed: “Tell me what it is you want.”

Ahtar just shrugged.

"I highly doubt anyone's going to be responsive to your demands if they don't know what they are," she said, haughtily. "Unless you'd care to articulate them for me?"

“I want that Thalmor Advisor to come down to the the jarl’s longhouse; and I want a halfway competent Restoration mage down here, too. Otherwise, get used to seeing my face." Ahtar drew his lips back, to pull the scars tight. "Or learn to sail through ice. Little bird told me that the Archmage might be almost out of brandy. And us right at freeze-up, too.”

Nelacar cleared his throat diffidently and said to Faralda: “I’ll go up there with you. Ancano’s a complete ass but at least he won’t speak to me the way he does to you.”

“I’ll watch your bridge for you,” Ahtar promised. "Nobody's gonna cross it."

Faralda conceded.

"Well, where is he?" came the nasally demand.

Ahtar paused in his cleaning. "Already up at the jarl's," he said, shortly.

He surveyed the Thalmor's arrogant back and chose to drop his things and follow. 

This looked promising.

"I hope that you are pleased with yourself; you have now drawn the attention of the Thalmor to this place," the Advisor said in his hateful voice.

"Already been done," said Ahtar, before Korir could answer. "Where's our healer?" Ahtar demanded.

The Thalmor officer frowned at him. "I am fully qualified," he said. "By the standards of Alinor, not by the minimal expectations of this benighted wasteland." 

As soon as the door to the jarl's living quarters opened, the Justiciar's head turned, sharply. His entire demeanor changed; his eagle's gaze was now fixed on the true enemy. "Whose child is that?" he demanded-- and, as soon as he got into the room and got a glimpse of Yllga: "How long has she been breathing like that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next three chapters belong to Ancano, as he goes to Solitude in search of more information about Justiciar Cyrelian and his circumstances. Rather than attempt to meet with his superiors in the Thalmor, Ancano decides to check in with an old acquaintance...


	3. Ancano: Previous Acquaintance. (Solitude, Fredas 15th of Frostfall 4e202)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancano arrives in Solitude and approaches Auryen Morellus, a well-respected Altmer mage who is renovating an old temple into a museum dedicated to Nord history and associated cultural relics. Auryen is not eager to speak with him, but in the end gives in.

Ancano waited for some time.

Hearing movement, he stepped into the entryway and knocked again. Footsteps; and an aggrieved voice, somewhat muffled. “I told you people yesterday—around the side!”

The door was unlatched and swept wide: “Just set them in the hallway! I’ll be right…” 

Footsteps, hurrying away. 

A door opened, and slammed shut.

Ancano carefully shut the great iron door behind himself. 

He had never been in a temple of Talos before. Former temple. Nothing impressive to speak of; at least not in the entrance hall-- the same stone floor he had seen in buildings all over Solitude. A crudely-executed depiction of the current jarl held pride of place in a small alcove to his left, just above a shelf with a small wooden chest.

He sniffed. 

Sawdust. Fresh paint and plasterwork. 

He could see down the hall into a brilliantly-lit central rotunda, where it was evident that a central plinth had been removed. What was being built there? It looked like no more than an empty glass box. 

The area itself was roped off from entry.

With nothing better to do, Ancano turned to regard the painting with a critical eye. Had it been accomplished with a small trowel? Or—he squinted. Fingers? Certainly it was garish enough to be a child’s work.

There was a small wooden chest on the shelf marked "Lost Items." A lockbox rested next to a small tag that said "Donations" and a ledger, presumably for visitors to sign. There were only three or four entries.

Ancano waited.

Eventually one of the hall doors entered and the proprietor emerged, wiping his hands on a towel.

“I’m sorry,” said Auryen Morellus. “The museum is closed. It will re-open this evening for a private party in honor of Emperor’s Day; and will not resume operations until mid-Morning Star, on the Day of Lights.”

“I can see that you’re rather busy,” agreed Ancano. “But-- if you could spare me a moment, please? Just a quick question or two-- This has to do with one of our young people.”

Despite Ancano's plain College of Winterhold robes, Auryen could see the Justiciar, plainly enough. 

His pleasant expression clouded over at once: “The First Emissary has directed you Thalmor to leave me alone!"

“I am not here on official business,” Ancano offered. “Please, if you would. This is an off-the-record preliminary--”

“There’s a private reception in a couple of hours for some of the notable citizens. Funding event. I mistook your knock for the caterer’s. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“Please,” Ancano said again, with great deference.

“It is a matter of urgency.”

Auryen Morellus vented his frustration with no more than a short exhalation. “Very well. Wait for me in the library. It’s quite a bit warmer.”

Stultifying would be a more accurate description. 

Sweating, Ancano removed his hood; he contemplated his wool leg wraps and sighed, tempted. Well, he was not in his duty blacks; he could divest his outerwear. He set his heavier shoulder-bag down on the floor and found a couple of chairs to drape his cloak and hood and heavy outer robe over.

He explored.

There were three floors to the place. It was evidently meant to be open to the public; there was a cataloguing system posted on the wall, and a book return.

Some books had already been placed on the mostly-empty shelves, segregated into various topics; there were some rarer tomes under glass. Nothing proscribed, not that that would mean anything here.

Though there were a few Dunmeris volumes that were--- heh—restricted. None of the racier ones, Ancano was sorry to see.

Altogether it was not very impressive yet as a library, though the crates of books piled up in the workroom suggested that would change with time.

There were some Nord books he had not seen previously—one laid out on the work desk appeared to have a serious case of red rot——but the leatherwork on another in the cabinet was exquisitely fine and the gilt laid on with a master’s touch.

“There we are,” said Auryen, returning. “I can spare you a few moments. Please, proceed. But first—“ He scrutinized Ancano and the personal items that he had dispersed about the room, evidently displeased. “Do I know you? Because…”

“…Because I appear to be presuming on previous acquaintance?” Ancano set the book down, carefully. It deserved great care. “Likely you would not remember me. The University of Gwilim. Some years before the war.”

Auryen Morellus said, more uncertainly: “I’m afraid I still don’t place you.”

“One of the last colloquies before the war, " said Ancano. "Use of Illusion and Alteration spells to fashion permanent installations for educational purposes, I believe. Winterhold sent down a small contingent and I helped chair one of the roundtables. We spoke about Earrindo’s book on the subject-- you didn’t care for it, as I recall.”

“Ah. I think it may be coming back to me. You are a Battlemage these days, yes?” Auryen was still wary. “Who are your people, again?” he asked.

Suddenly irritated-- there it was again, that condescension--Ancano could not resist: “The only kinship house which endures is that of the Dominion,” he quoted, perhaps a bit too snidely.

And, at the querying flick of eyebrow: “Being out of one of the doctrinal schools, I would not know. And I no longer carry that particular distinction—I’m simply a Justiciar-Mage these days. Ancano. Of Winterhold, I suppose. I’ve been assigned as the Dominion’s Advisor to the Archmage.”

“Very prestigious,” observed Auryen Morellus. “It surprises me you find the time.” 

To come down here and bother me, he meant. 

“Not too much work in Winterhold at present. Alinor has not responded yet to my request for an official determination-- do we still act as under the Concordat, or no?” 

“Mhm,” was Auryen’s only response.

“There’s a fine line between vigorous pursuit of the ideals of the Dominion and exceeding the scope of one’s discretionary authority,” said Ancano, pleasantly.

“Speaking of which,” said Auryen Morellus, just as politely: “I have reached an accommodation with the Jarl of this region; the former High King; the First Emissary to Skyrim and the Emperor of Cyrodiil himself: The Thalmor are not to be interfering here.”

“Hardly interfering,” said Ancano. “I have no concerns in regards to your little project here. I’m actually seeking information about a possible missing person—“

“And you have some good reason, I presume, for not going through the requisite authorities?” Auryen looked forbidding. “I fail to see how this has anything to do with me.”

Here, Ancano knew, was the tipping point. 

“If you mean the First Emissary, then yes,” said Ancano, carefully. “I would prefer to avoid her scrutiny. Everything becomes more complicated once she chooses to involve herself.”

“Oh. For some reason I thought you would have been assigned to the diplomatic corps. Under Orondil. Was I misinformed?”

“To Ambassador Orondil solely? Ha. No, they’ve got me wearing two hats. Why should the Dominion pay more than one senior agent, or station more than one in such a remote setting? So, I’ve been on… well… you know how it goes. Goat-herd duty.”

Auryen Morellus did not appear to comprehend.

“Handling the overt agents,” explained Ancano. “Overt agents are the First Emissary’s bailiwick, so I’m bound to report all of my logged contacts to her as well. As opposed to...you know...social visits. On my own time.”

Auryen’s stony expression suggested that he was ignoring this hint.

“Advisor duties—that report goes out under separate cover back to Alinor, because gods forbid one report would suffice.” Ancano added: “Copies go out to the local agents-in-charge, of course.” 

Hopefully, all these references to bureaucratic impedimenta would soften Auryen Morellus up. 

So far his facade had remained imperturbable.

“Ah,” said Auryen, cooly. “So. Tell Orondil you wish to pose some unofficial inquiries—pertinent solely to your status as mage-advisor, of course—to a permanent resident of Solitude. Which I am, with all of its appurtenant legal protections. Ambassador Orondil will approach Her Excellency of Haafingar with a request in proper form; in due course Jarl Elisif will grant it—she is likely to grant it—and after that an interview can be arranged to our mutual convenience. So until then--” 

Auryen smiled with all graciousness-- 

“Good day.”

Ancano began to speak quickly--it was that or scrabble around in an undignified manner picking up belongings:

“Eight days ago I was notified that there was a Thalmor agent who had collapsed and was in extremis in the village of Winterhold, close by the College,” he said. “When I arrived, his condition was such that I took him into custody and placed him immediately into stasis. It is no real solution, but it will keep him for now. As long as the binding-stones hold out.”

Auryen displayed no reaction whatsoever. 

Ancano drew breath: “The only real information that I have about him is a name and the fact that he is or was a Justiciar attached to this Embassy. And most of what I know comes from a third party; I have no way of verifying it. So this is rather urgent-- a matter of life and death."

He stared at the elder mer, beseechingly: "Anything involving the Ambassador goes straight to the desk of the First Emissary. Something is wrong. I have a terrible foreboding about all of this. I do not wish to contact her. Please.”

“Elenwen?” Auryen feigned puzzlement. “But she’s such a delight!”

“You don’t want her down here any more than I do,” said Ancano, sourly. He sat down.

Auryen spread his hands, conceding this point.

“Who is this young person?” Auryen asked, suddenly.

“I was given the name Cyrelian,” said Ancano. “Again—third party information and I couldn’t say that any of that is accurate. He is in fact a Justiciar; he bears the indicia. I have no idea where his station is supposed to be. He was brought to Winterhold and more-or-less dropped at my feet. But that’s all that I have—he’s not capable of speech just now even if I dare to bring him that far out of stasis.”

Auryen Morellus had gone silent.

“This has gone far enough,” said the older mer, eventually. “I’m willing to speak to you--assuming the appropriate immunity is granted—and it had better not be off the record. The civil authorities must be present.”

“I’m open to suggestion,” said Ancano, as humbly as he could. 

Auryen Morellus was thinking: “I can rely on your word that you are not here as a Justiciar, yes? You will not be relaying this little conversation to your superiors?”

“Only if I can prevent this from devolving into a cause-of-death inquiry.” Ancano cleared his throat. “I also happen to be a Master-classed Restoration mage,” he advised. “And I’ve agreed to serve as this young mer’s physician. My very strong preference would be to continue in that capacity instead.”

A clattering of bottles and men cursing--audible even as far away as the third floor of the library-- suggested that the caterers had, in fact, arrived.

You might as well stay for the reception,” invited Auryen, resigned. "I will need the next several hours to make the arrangements."

Ancano demurred; the last thing he needed was for Auryen Morellus to attempt to explain his presence. He could wait someplace out of sight till it was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Auryen Morellus receives his assurances and agrees to speak with Ancano about Justiciar Cyrelian, who remains desperately ill and held in stasis, back in Winterhold.


	4. Ancano: Assurances. (Solitude, Fredas 15th of Frostfall 4e202)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auryen Morellus receives his documentation as Thalmor Ambassador Orondil subtly warns Ancano that danger lies ahead. Ancano intends to conduct an interrogation of the museum director, but finds himself giving his own debriefing.

Ears are private things,” said Ambassador Orondil. “But mine are not, it seems. First Emissary’s got a claim on ‘em.”

He regarded his brandy-snifter, swirling its dregs. “I’m certain you’ll be able to handle yourself, Justiciar-Mage Ancarion?” The Ambassador's words and lazy mannerisms were those of a dullard; his eyes were keen indeed.

“Ancano,” said that worthy, wincing. He had never thought he’d hear Ambassador Orondil admit, flat-out, just how emasculating it was to be an ambassador in title only.

Auryen Morellus had neatly stripped away the Ambassador’s importunate secretary via the expedient of a “small private reception; major donors only.” Ancano was fairly certain that the fellow was outside the door, straining to overhear. 

So Ancano had said no more than that he must: He was looking into the personal circumstances of a Justiciar who was ill. He thought Auryen Morellus might know the family. And Auryen Morellus did not speak with Thalmor except with assurances.

At this point the Ambassador cut him off: "Get that steward down here and get on with it."

Falk Firebeard, of course, wanted an explanation.

Jarl Elisif's steward was particularly interested as to why no one had sent up to the Embassy-- why was his name to be lent to these proceedings? And wasn't this the sort of interview that ought to be had with a clerk present?

He had a number of other quibbles. Nords were alleged to be less litigious than other races. Not this Nord.

Ancano did his best to give a comprehensive explanation absent any reference to the matter which was about to be under discussion. Falk Firebeard was looking annoyed.

Ancano was rescued only when the Ambassador broke in, smoothly, and asked if Falk wouldn't consider it a personal favor?

Forewarned, Falk had brought his seal along. Thankfully. Or they would have had to wait for a messenger and Falk's secretary.

Ancano had spent much of the previous hours mentally drafting the short document, so he had no trouble swiftly committing it to paper. Auryen Morellus came forward to review it, going through it with Falk Firebeard.

Falk had almost nothing to say about it-- there would have been very little to object to, in any event.

Auryen Morellus was speechless.

"Do you wish for me to take part in this little document review?" called the Ambassador.

"We're all in agreement on the terms here," cut in Auryen Morellus. "It isn't necessary."

Of course,” yawned the Ambassador. 

Falk sank back down on the bench to top off his refreshment.

“And I may trust that, in due time, you’ll generate the appropriate reports? About this poor Justiciar?” Ambassador Orondil stifled another yawn. “Doesn’t sound like a very urgent matter, does it? Just as a matter of form. Alinor demands that we document everything thoroughly, you know. I’m certain you’ll get around to it. When you get a moment from your other, more pressing duties.”

"In due time, Ambassador," Ancano agreed, feeling an uneasy chill.

“Good, good,” said the Ambassador. He heaved himself to his feet and handed the empty glass to his host. “We’re all reliant on your discretion, Advisor Ancalmo; that’s why we pay you that lavish salary and hm!--housing allowance. Gentlemen, goodnight.”

“Civil service joke,” Ancano explained with a little chuckle, as soon as the door closed.

Internally, Ancano was shuddering; the Ambassador had all but performed a little bird-dance advertising danger. And the constant misspeaking of Ancano’s name-- that was a signal as well. Alinor would be reviewing the Ambassador’s next report and be asking itself: Justiciar-mage... who was that again? Terrifying.

To Auryen: “Are you satisfied?”

Auryen Morellus looked up from the document he was re-reading. “In a moment, Advisor,” he said. “I’ve never seen one of these before. Astonishing.” And: “I had no idea you could even begin to promise such a thing-- the scope of this is--” He coughed. "Unprecedented."

Career-ending, is what it was. The sort of career-ending that generally ends with a private discussion in chambers with the Second Council, in the room with the drain in the floor. Auryen Morellus knew it, too. Ancano watched him refold his copy of the agreement and set it back down on the desk with great care.

Ancano came forward, as easily as if this were some routine matter that he handled all the time.

One of the few benefits of Ancano’s own present circumstances was this: he had survived long enough to become fairly senior. Seniority confers discretion; and if he had read the Ambassador correctly, the Ambassador had just given Ancano carte blanche. And even if Ancano was deemed to have exceeded his own allowable bounds--oh, he had-- nonetheless: the document itself was in proper form. 

It would stand.

Ancano had really stopped caring. What could the Thalmor do to him? Send him off to be re-educated for a third time? Send him back to live with the Forsworn? They would not. Ancano still had friends there. Witchmen live a long time. Was there even a place on Tamriel considered to be more of a hardship post than Winterhold? Black Marsh, perhaps.

At least in Black Marsh it would be warm. And, even accounting for the occasional insectoid entree, the food would be better.

“Do you wish for me to remain?” asked Falk Firebeard, hesitating. He could sense the tension.

“No, thank you, Steward Firebeard; if you could just see to it that the original is recorded, I would appreciate it. That would be all for now--please, enjoy the rest of your evening. Let me just put this up.” Auryen picked up his own copy of the document and left the room alongside the Nord, shutting the door behind them. Likely he was showing the man out and then heading for some well-hidden safe.

“Change your mind?” asked Ancano, on Auryen’s return, indicating where Falk Firebeard had been sitting.

“Once you saw fit to offer blanket immunity…” Auryen smiled and shrugged. “I no longer needed an advocate of any sort.” He gave a thin-edged smile. “One’s tempted to come up with all sorts of confessions.” 

Which would, of course, be guaranteed to be sheltered from all prosecution. Forever.

Advisor Ancano resolved to keep this interview relatively focused.

“Do you have your questions ready for me?” Auryen asked.

“I do,” said Ancano. 

“Permit me to suggest a different approach,” said Auryen, consideringly. He nudged the drinks tray a bit closer. “I think that we might be able to get through this more quickly, if you don’t mind, if you tell me what you observed from the very beginning.” He sat back in his chair. “I would hate to give you the wrong idea or the wrong impression. I think I know what is going on-- this has been a very chaotic situation--but I could be mistaken. So. Begin.”

Ancano hesitated.

“Surely you Thalmor are accustomed to debriefings?” observed Auryen, dryly. He reached for the brandy bottle and poured for both of them. A challenge: How badly do you want this information, Justiciar?

The answer was-- very badly. Ancano did not have time to posture about in some dogfight. What point would there be in attempting a battle of wills with this mer? Auryen Morellus had been of an age to demand deferential respect since well before Ancano’s own birth. 

And-- it was very good brandy.

So Ancano began, just as he would have to his own superiors: “On Middas before last, I was in my chambers at the College when one of the former instructors-- who happens to be Altmeri-- came in to advise me that there was talk of a Thalmor officer who was very ill at the town inn.”

“So who was this Altmer? Someone you knew?” Auryen’s whole attitude had changed; he was suddenly receptive. Listening closely.

“Nelacar of Lillandril,” said Ancano. “Specialized in Enchanting. Used to teach Destruction magick to the first-year students; left the College after some blow-up at a faculty meeting. Didn’t get along with the Archmage. Keeps a room at the local tavern and conducts his research in the Arcaneum. Nothing exceptional about him." 

He drank. 

"Not one of our people,” Ancano said, meaning not a Thalmor. “I didn’t take him very seriously at first. There are always rumors about Thalmor. Last time it proved to be a Bosmer con artist shaking down travelers. But I checked my own records and the last dispatches and-- there was nobody recorded as missing.”

Auryen’s interest was sparked: “That’s odd. No one at all?”

“There are always a few people noted as being on frolic,” said Ancano. “But I didn’t think any of them matched the description I had gotten out of Nelacar. In any event, Nelacar was persistent, so I went down to take a look for myself.”

“Same day?”

“Mm. A few hours later. Nelacar had left and come back again. He was upset. The jarl had gotten involved, and there was this huge Redguard-- well. There was commotion, in town.”

“You would think they would be celebrating,” commented Auryen. “They don’t much care for Thalmor in Stormcloak country.”

“That was the other thing I felt was unusual,” agreed Ancano. “I would have expected them to take care of such a problem via the Sea of Ghosts. But, when I got there, this mer was in the jarl's longhouse, and had been granted guest status--” he shrugged. “Made things easier for me. I didn’t ask. He was in bad shape by then.” Ancano drank more of his brandy. “But there was another sick person present who was worse off, so I put our friend down into stasis-- his condition was quite poor but relatively stable-- and dealt with the other.” He tilted his goblet, examining the tawny liquid. “This is truly excellent. Is it the Colovian?”

“Single-batch, from a little place up in the Kreath mountains,” said Auryen. “Have some more of the cheese biscuits; or they'll just go to waste.” Auryen reached over and took a handful for himself.

“In any event. The jarl’s small child-- who is very ill, a congenital defect that had become exacerbated-- was going into a respiratory crisis. As there was no other healer available--”

“Really?” interrupted Auryen. “That makes no sense either. College of Winterhold’s renowned for its program in Restoration magick. Not to mention Alchemy. Where were they at?” Auryen frowned. “Where was the jarl’s wizard?”

“He has none. And the Arch-mage had previously forbidden the College mages to work in any professional capacity in the province itself,” said Ancano. “I don’t recall why that was-- it was during the time that I was gone-- but it certainly created a ruckus. A number of individuals left the College. Nelacar was one of them. Sadly, he has no healing.” 

He frowned. “This is a very small child-- not yet old enough to be away from her mother’s side. One could hear her struggling to breathe from across the room.”

The thought of it angered him enough to propel him from the chair. He took a few restless paces across the room. Morellus set his cup down and followed him; and after a few moments touched his sleeve.

Ancano turned to meet Auryen Morellus’ suddenly-sympathetic gaze. The mer’s eyes were crystalline blue-- human blue, the whitened sclera clearly demarcated from the iris. Must’ve had them cosmetically altered, Ancano thought suddenly. These humans trust him. He himself could feel the charismatic draw of the mer. 

Illusion, he told himself. 

Illusion and Alteration.

Be wary.

“It isn’t right,” Ancano said abruptly. “For me to give those people false hope. I should have told them that they were better off letting events take their natural course. But... “

“You needed the jarl’s good will,” said Auryen, soothingly-- he understood. “Go on. Did you get to take a look at our young one that day?”

“I did not,” said Ancano. “By the time I felt I could turn my attention to him, it was full dark. So I sat up with the child, and waited until light. Even from what I could see preliminarily, he had injuries that warranted a close examination.”

“What did you see when you did?” asked Auryen.

“Male, and I would say of noble-caste or somewhat better.” Ancano touched his own face, and Auryen gestured his understanding; features sometimes told the story of one’s breeding but not always--Ancano had just admitted himself to be a sport. 

“Certainly well-to-do in the past,” Ancano went on. “Feet and hands well-formed-- no hard labor. And his teeth--one had been recently broken, that had to have hurt-- but otherwise were perfect. No decay. Well-tended in youth. I’d say he’d been well-nourished until recently too-- broad-shouldered and reasonably tall. Perhaps a little taller than myself?”

Auryen nodded.

“Young, as well,” said Ancano. “Very young. Not even into his mid-forties yet, if I’m any judge. Barely out of the Academy. That reminds me, I should check his name against the graduation lists while I’m here. He does carry the indicia of a Justiciar; it was implanted in both of the usual places, and it passed the check.”

“I’m not familiar,” said Auryen Morellus. “I mean, I’m generally aware that you all have some method of credentialing, so we can take that as read.”

Ancano let it go.

“So-- he has the indicia but nothing else,” said Ancano. “No rank designations; no seniority rate-- not anything else either, not even any caste-mark. His cosmetic enhancements were in tatters though, so I’m not surprised. Everything but the indicia would have become disrupted.” He sighed. “Wouldn’t make much sense to tell you what his coloring and complexion are; it was plain he’d changed all that.” He rubbed his nose. “I couldn’t get eye color. Hair reddish blond. Maybe a pale sort of auburn. But filthy, so who knows.”

“Any clue there?” asked Auryen. “From what was left of the cosmetic alteration?”

“Not really. It was a fairly substantive one from what I could discern--hair, eyes, skin and so on-- but that’s all I could get. Darker hair, maybe? Or more reddish? I thought there might be freckles. And I’m somewhat guessing at what his appropriate weight should be; he was in such terrible condition.”

Auryen was frowning: “Offhand, I can’t think of anything powerful enough to break a cosmetic enhancement,” he said, going to retrieve his cup. “Normally those are fairly robust.”

“Magicka burn,” said Ancano flatly.

Auryen winced.

“Hand me that, will you?” Auryen directed. Ancano handed over the decanter, and Auryen topped off the brandy for both of them before Ancano could refuse.

“My best guess is secondary to overhealing himself, but it’s impossible to know,” said Ancano, glumly, settling himself back in. “It’s certainly complicating his presentation.” He brooded. “There’s something else as well,” he said. “And I can’t discern whether it’s doing him harm or good-- and nothing I could do would touch it.”

“Ah?” said Auryen.

“Some sort of sigil on his lumbar region,” said Ancano. “Nothing I’ve seen before. Looks like a mundane tattoo, but whatever-it-was was tied into both his cosmetic enhancement and to ground. So it certainly isn’t.” He sighed. “I thought at first that it was sapping his magicka so I tried to cut it off, but nothing I could do would even begin to touch it. But it wasn’t-- he has no capacity to regenerate or retain magicka now. It’s not parasitic-- it’s operating under its own power, tapping ground-rootlets.” 

Like a cosmetic enhancement applied to a non-mage.

“One of those new religious orders-- some kind of initiate’s mark?” 

“No,” said Ancano. “None that I know. My suspicion is that it’s Daedric. And whatever-it-is, it’s fully active. I can’t imagine they let him through the Academy with that thing visible-- or even with it concealed under an illusion. There are inspections...but I suppose one never knows these days.”

“Naarifin, Thonela, Arannelya--” agreed Auryen, setting down his glass and making gestures that suggested Daedric glyphs. “Well, you know. The rumors.” He stood up: “I couldn’t say that I’m any expert in things daedric, but as you know I have some small interest. There’s… “ he scanned the room. “Looks like I haven’t gotten around to cataloguing them yet, but I have some resource materials that I just picked up in Mournhold. So, assuming you still feel the need, you’d be welcome to conduct your own research…” 

Auryen went to shift a couple of books around on the shelf, prised one out of the stack, and came back with it to sit down.

“I do have the Arcaneum to draw upon as well,” mused Ancano. “But thank you, a more focused approach may be beneficial.” By which he meant: if he could keep Master Urag and the Arch-Mage from sticking their noses in Thalmor business, all the better. “Really,” Ancano said, “I’m just satisfying my own curiosity. It’s more than likely some family-tradition thing that it’s best not to inquire into too closely. I’m far more concerned, at present, about his physical and magickal injuries.” 

“Mind sharing?” suggested Auryen, after a moment. "It might help to talk it through." 

He was leafing negligently through the book, but Ancano wasn’t fooled. 

Auryen Morellus was still listening. Keenly.

“Where do I even begin…” Ancano rubbed his chin. “I’ll start at the bottom of the list, least dangerous to most. Flitworm; living in the wild, you know-- undercooked freshwater fish.”

“I’ve had it,” said Auryen. “Working in field conditions, you know how it goes. Unpleasant-tasting medicine. Go on.”

“After that I would say the bruises and other external injuries,” said Ancano, consideringly. “Normally I’d say those would be the least bad, flitworm can be awful, but-- honestly this was bad enough that in some places it looked like post-mortem lividity.” He drank. “So. Thighs, back; in interesting clusters across the insides of his elbows and wrists; his ankles… also a large swathe across his upper right abdominal area-- blunt object at some great force-- and what looks like a couple of boot prints across his left lower back. Nasty.”

“Did you ever train in any forensic pathology?” asked Auryen, interested.

“Not formally,” Ancano admitted. “But-- if you’re asking whether I’ve seen this sort of thing before--” He shook his head. “We’ll leave it at that,” he said, distantly.

“Let me see-- The more minor problems are: malnourishment and dehydration, both on the verge of becoming moderate.. Some sort of kidney infection or insult, probably from the same injury which caused that bruise on his flank; a nasty bout of the rattles; and possibly the worst case of intestinal impaction I have ever seen, bar none.” Ancano scooped another bit of cheese onto a rusk. “We have one of those chirurgeon-alchemists in residence,” he confided. “I had him busy setting up to deal with it when I left. Better him than me.”

Auryen snorted, quietly. Then he asked another question.

“What?” said Ancano. “Oh, his traveling companion--that Redguard-- didn’t have any details about his identity and so on; but he was able to regale me with the the tale of their journey, including the particulars of their diet, such as it was, traveling with the Khajiit. Frankly I’m not surprised, given the amount of moonsugar they were stuffing into him to keep him upright.”

“Anyhow,” he went on, “All of that is resolvable; assuming the best, we’ll deal with it. In the meantime my greatest and most salient concern is whatever inflammatory process is going on in that abdomen. I’ll know more once I review Evrard’s report.”

“Won’t bringing him out of stasis to accomplish, ah, that procedure-- pose its own risks?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ancano. “And, er, the procedure could provoke an intestinal rupture, or an overwhelming sepsis. He’ll have to be brought partway out of stasis for it to be accomplished-- and if he panics again, and flails around… That could get ugly.” He sipped his drink. “But, it has to be done. Evrard’s just waiting on my go-ahead.”

“I’m surprised you did not stay to supervise.”

“The current climate is one of plausible deniability,” murmured Ancano, into his glass. 

“Ah.”

“If I’m wrong about what’s going on with him,” said Ancano, “… well, all of the differentials are essentially fatal, so I could be of no further help in any event. Evrard can handle palliative care as well as I can.”

He looked at Auryen Morellus. “My motives are not merely selfish,” Ancano added. “Any subsequent investigation would doubtless have to be handled out of my office. We don’t have any other facilities in the area. And if that happens, I would prefer to direct what goes on-- so far all I’ve done is examine, not treat. I could fall back on my role as Justiciar. Better than, say, watching myself be pushed to the side and then having the Third Emissary rifle through all of my cabinets.”

“Keep the liquor in the top drawer,” advised Auryen, snidely. He apparently held the same opinions as to the overall competence of the esteemed Third Emissary. “Look, it’s not worth me putting this thing up three-quarters empty, is it?” Auryen lifted the bottle.

Ancano, obligingly, held out his cup. He was going to be very drunk.

“...And, of course, finding out whether I should be continuing to bother with any of this; or instead turn the whole problem over to the Third Emissary to deal with.” Ancano finished his drink, savoring the last bit of its mellow aftertaste and nearly sighing with regret. “Amongst other things, he deals with disciplinary issues amongst the field agents.” 

Or, more accurately, was widely known to shirk that duty. 

“Assuming that I have misread this situation and that there was some disciplinary situation which led to this Justiciar abandoning his post…” Ancano hesitated. “If it’s that sort of thing, headed towards severe inquiry... I’ll have Evrard hold off, and mark it as “found obtunded; death imminent”-- better to dig a quiet grave,” he mused. “Hence my original thought to start with an unofficial inquiry. And I know nothing of what’s been going on out here in Haafingar. Haven’t been out here since I came through to take up my post.”

“Hm,” said Auryen, and Ancano rather thought he’d smirked.

Ancano knew very well that the last few weeks in Solitude had been sheer unbridled chaos.

“I want to hear a little more about why you think his condition is so serious,” requested Auryen.

Ancano sighed. “Those original injuries-- that was a severe beating. Fists, both ends of some kind of whip, butt and tip. A thin implement-- a quarterstaff or stick. He has scars from lacerations on his arms and chest and back that appear to have had magickal healing. A crushing injury to the abdomen-- that’s the most serious issue-- that bruise must have taken days to surface. Frankly I am surprised he could walk.” Ancano modulated his tone of voice: “I’m sorry-- I do not mean to take this out on you. I am very angry.”

Auryen nodded, to indicate that he had not taken offense.

“He must have some talent for Restoration magick,” said Ancano. “Some good training. Of course he then healed and overhealed himself till he could no longer arrest that process. Which is when he went into crisis.”

“Is that what’s killing him?”

“Not precisely,” said Ancano. “I believe that he had a significant abdominal blunt-trauma injury-- I assume from the beating-- which has actually healed up somewhat. I believe that its sequelae have set up an intense localized inflammation. In essence, his flesh is seeking to digest itself. Probably spurred on by the overhealing.”

“Similar to what happens with magicka-burn.”

“Precisely. And with this condition occurring alongside magicka-burn-- I could keep pouring more healing-- more magicka into him, but it’s like dumping boiling water into a cracked cup. At best it seeps back out, leaving no benefit. At worst--” Ancano spread his fingers--”the cup shatters. One of these conditions could perhaps be remedied; the two together-- well. I don’t mind saying that I’m out of my depth.” He turned the cup about in his fingers. “When I return, I will see what I can do to get Colette Marence to consult.” 

And what a joy that would be.

“There is a young Justiciar gone missing,” said Auryen, suddenly. “And it surprises me to learn that he was not on any of your lists. There was a search for him that created all kinds of fuss, just prior to Orondil’s little flit to Jehanna.” He stared at the last few drops of his own of his own brandy and finished it, seeming to resolve himself: “I left at around the same time; it seemed like a good time for a mer to be gone. Went with a colleague to Morrowind to attend a series of lectures on Chimer geomancy and stone-carving, and almost didn’t make it out ahead of the winter weather. Would’ve been stuck for the entire season in Blacklight or Solstheim.”

“Better weather than Winterhold,” commented Ancano.

“Mhm. Lonely Netch was the name of the ship, in case you need to establish some sort of timeline. Left towards the end of Last Seed; just returned this past Morndas.” 

Auryen’s eyes were clear and guileless; there was a lie there, Ancano knew. 

He didn’t care about it.

“Do you know much more about this Justiciar-- do you think he’s the same as mine?” Ancano asked.

Auryen Morellus nodded. “He is. And I do. To what extent do you wish to become involved? Because I fear this will become ugly.”

Ancano said: “I’d rather not be involved at all. But, I’m one of the few who would be relatively impervious to any of the political ash-droppings, as they say. They’ve had me in the Druadachs ten years. No-contact, no-support. Now they have me stuck out at Winterhold dancing attendance on Savos Aren, of all people. What could be worse? Black Marsh? Feh." Ancano straightened up in his chair and met the older mer's gaze: "So. I’m not about to run away crying at some reprimand,” he said. "Tell me."


	5. Ancano: Consult. (Solitude, Loredas 16th of Frostfall 4e202)

Auryen regarded him for a little while, then appeared to come to some conclusion. He left the room and returned a minute or so later with a couple of bottles of small beer in each hand. 

“This Cyrelian--” said Auryen, as he settled himself and offered the drink. “--not quite the description you gave, but well within the bounds of what could be changed via cosmetic enhancement.”

“When you saw him previously, what did he look like?” asked Ancano.

“Prior to this summer?” Auryen clarified. “He always used to be in attendance on Elenwen or the Ambassador, sometimes in blacks, sometimes filling in for one of the soldiers. I thought he might be one of her aides. Let me see…” he glanced about the room. “What a shame, I don’t have any of the pattern-books here. But you know how it is. One gets to a certain age, and just maintains the fashions of one’s youth.”

Ancano kept silent. His looks had often been attributed to cosmetic enhancers. He had never taken advantage of any.

“Let me think,” said Auryen. “It was definitely a late-fall mode, one of the soft-contrast ones. Autumn Despond? Leafs-last-breath? I’m really not certain.” He frowned. “Hair sort of a dead autumn-leaf color; not quite auburn. A great deal of freckles. Eyes—hazel or green or brown. Fairly well done for what it was; thought he had a good eye for what would pass, at a distance, as Bosmeri. If there weren’t other people around, for one to gauge size. Plenty of Bosmer in Skyrim. No one takes notice of them. Or perhaps as an outsize Breton, to the undereducated.” He drank again. “In dim light, maybe even a Nord, if he kept a hood on.”

Ancano asked another question. 

“When’d I see him last on duty?” Auryen frowned. “Hard to say. Elenwen had him at court a few times not too long after all those funeral obsequies for High King Torygg finally concluded. Let’s see-- I came in on a land-grant petition the early part of last fall-- he was in Nordic court dress bearing the Thalmor sigil, and I believe he had been sent there to provide some of the break time’s informal entertainment. He played the flute. Seemed in good fettle.” He smiled. “There was this persistent rumor going around about him and a couple of Dibellan priestesses, but I wouldn’t credit any of it. Pretty wild stuff. He didn’t seem the sort.”

Ancano drank his own small beer, considering.

“Oh—I should say. High-noble caste mark—“ Auryen Morellus traced the pattern of it on his own face; Ancano nodded-- it was the most common one of that status; not much help there. “Orondil had him out and about running a few minor errands—I got most of this from Orondil, you know. He’s the one who was out looking for him. Made it sound like it was only unsanctioned leave, but it was plain he was severely worried.” He sighed. "My preference would have been to bring Orondil in on this fully."

“But I chose not to,” said Auryen. “Because of what happened later. I spoke to this Cyrelian, you know.” He regarded the crumbs on empty plate, sadly, and excused himself. When he returned, he was bearing a platter with more crème treats-- as well as rusks and cheese and preserved quinces in syrup. Rosy-pink sliced ham sandwiches with Jehennan hot mustard and some crisp green apples. 

“Sorry,” Auryen said. “I couldn’t slow down long enough to eat earlier.”

“When did you see him last?” asked Ancano, once he had achieved some of this ambrosia for himself. 

Auryen covered his hand with his mouth until he finished his last bite: “Late summer, the evening I departed for Morrowind,” said Auryen, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

“So this was after he’d gone missing?”

“Oh yes,” said Auryen. “He’d been out on frolic quite awhile by then.”

“What sort of physical shape was he in? Magickal? Was he ill?”

“It was hard to discern details. A warm evening, indoors, and there were a number of other persons present and not much light.” Auryen brooded over this a moment. “Superficial injuries were apparent, yes—bruises all over his hands and wrists. Face and neck. Could be what you described. I want to say that there would have been scratches or cuts, Couldn’t tell you what gave me that impression, though. At one point in our conversation, he became overset and had to go and sit down. I didn’t find that all that unusual, though—“ Auryen looked away from Ancano. “—I had directed him to report back in to the Embassy.”

“Had you?”

Auryen said: “Very clearly he’d been out on frolic for an extended time and was not doing well. Nothing he was saying was making any sense to me-- he was almost raving. Accusing the First Emissary of conspiracies against him and so on. Said she was trying to disgrace him so she would prevail on some legal dispute. Skinny, filthy dirty under his clothes-- those looked new--his hair was all cut off and matted. He reeked.”

“Like what?” Ancano persisted. Dried blood, the sweetish scent of rot, unwashed clothing, bad digestion-- he needed to glean every detail he could.

Auryen’s mouth had pursed up, almost primly: “Like he’d been fending off wild beasts.” 

“Wild beasts?” repeated Ancano, with great care.

“Oh, yes,” mused Auryen. “There was no other reasonable explanation for the condition he was in.” He set down the remainder of his sandwich and pushed it away, as though he’d found it suddenly unappetizing.

“I am sorry,” Auryen Morellus added. “I should correct myself. I didn’t send this Cyrelian back to the Embassy. I thought that would have been rather unsafe. Instead I directed him to report to Ambassador Orondil, so that the Ambassador could facilitate his immediate transfer back to Alinor.”

“Too many wild beasts... in the vicinity of the Embassy?”

“There are reputed to be,” said Auryen, who had taken an unseemly interest in whatever dregs remained in his bottle of beer. Or perhaps it was something of interest on its label.

Despite the food, Ancano was too drunk for this; he could not keep up. Not quite.

“So—would that unfortunate circumstance not be something to bring to our ever-so-delightful First Emissary’s attention?” he dared. “Should be well within her discretion.” 

“One would think so,” observed Auryen. 

They were silent.

“Far outside of my mandate,” Ancano was quick to observe.

“So says the Ambassador. As well as everyone else I've spoken to,” commented Auryen Morellus, pleasantly. “It is no one’s job, it seems, to hold that leash.”

It was Third Emissary Rulindil’s job, but there would be no point in bringing that up.

Ancano coughed abruptly, to signal a change in in this surpassingly awkward subject: “So-- did he seem particularly ill to you, when you saw him? Feverish, sweating, or so on?

“Slow to move around,” said Auryen, displaying gratitude for the shift. Perhaps he was a little drunk, too. “It was difficult for him to rise from his seat, or to sit down. Nothing that would have struck me as unusual for having suffered an ordinary sort of beating.” Auryen frowned. “It was the dinner hour and others were taking refreshment and he was not. He declined. That struck me as odd.”

“And would you have been in a position to note whether he performed any healing spell or anything of the like? Or consumed healing potions or other simples?”

“I spoke with him a few minutes only,” said Auryen. “I saw nothing.”

“Do you know if anyone else healed him?”

Auryen Morellus sighed. “Now we come to it,” he said. His lips compressed. “I’m afraid I cannot give you that information.”

Something was odd. Why was Auryen Morellus suddenly so anxious? 

"Likely nobody cares but me,” said Ancano, taking great pains to sound morose. He sighed. “Ambassador Orondil has probably already written him off.”

“Sit back down." Auryen Morellus was thinking. “You need to speak with this person directly?”

“I do,” said Ancano.

“There will be no arrests?” asked Auryen, sharply.

“I wouldn’t have the authority to do so. Nor the jurisdiction, actually.”

Auryen hesitated. “What if you did? Speaking theoretically, mind you.”

"Is this mage a citizen of Alinor, then?" Ancano demanded. That would help him narrow the field, greatly.

Auryen Morellus looked even more disinclined to speak.

“I understand that this individual will have no wish to speak with the Thalmor,” said Ancano. “But if I find whoever-it-is, there will at least be a head start. The Justiciars who follow in my wake will not be so gracious.” He leaned forward, intently: “This is not a good prognosis-- but if this injury kills him, it will have done so because it was fatal from the beginning. Not because of something a healer-mage did or did not do. And so my report shall state.”

Auryen was silent.

“Please,” said Ancano. “You must know this is why I am here."

He let that silence fill the room for a few more moments. Then: "I cannot help him further unless I know what was done for him, or not done. I need to interview that healer so that I can get a better understanding of his initial condition. And--”

"This mage, would they have to be returned to Alinor? To be further interviewed by the Thalmor?" Auryen's voice was sharper now.

“Absent unambiguous evidence of malfeasance-- which there is not--no. I would be more than happy with an interview and an affidavit. Something that I could bring back to Alinor. Assuming the worst--I couldn’t guarantee that there wouldn’t be further questions down the line. Which of course would be coming from the First Emissary.”

“No,” said Auryen. “Any further questions-- those would not come from her. This goes higher up than you know.” 

There was quiet again. The fire had died down to coals and it was getting chilly in here. The windows showed a greyish light; it was getting on towards dawn. Ancano shifted in his chair. He got up to tend to the hearth, considering.

Before Ancano could ask anything else, Auryen Morellus cleared his throat: “I do have a question,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Do you have any sense as to what would happen next if the First Emissary were to be recalled? As in-- do we think that the Third Emissary would be promoted; or that there would be a pro tem appointment, or whether Alinor would simply replace the entire--”

“Oh. Yes,” said Ancano, standing back up and dusting the remains of bark off his hands.. “That’s an easy answer. Anyone new who came in would without a doubt be far worse."

“Are we absolutely certain of that?” questioned Auryen Morellus.

“I do regularly review the assignment bulletins and the seniority lists,” said Ancano. “It’s always wise to know who might be after one’s position.” 

Or one’s head. 

“Far, far worse,” he clarified. “Elenwen can at least be reasoned with, upon occasion. And Rulindil-- keeps to himself, more or less. I haven’t had much dealing with our installation in Markarth, but no news is good news from that place. Ondolemar’s star would fall with the First Emissary’s, though, I would guess. She brought him here.”

“Ah. Well, we have a significant problem then,” said Auryen. He brooded over this.

“I’m sorry?” Ancano didn’t follow him. 

“This young person is within the requisite degree of kinship to prompt the First Emissary’s recusal on any sort of investigation,” said Auryen. “Much less a death investigation.”

“Hm?”

“Well within,” clarified Auryen Morellus. “You do know the name?”

“I did remark upon the name,” said Ancano. “But you know how it was," Ancano excused himself. "For about a hundred years everyone was naming their children for Ata-Aldmeris; so I didn’t think it would be all that uncommon a name-construction to encounter. The ultra-orthodox, families desperate to curry favor, and so on. I thought nothing of it.” 

He regarded his bottle of beer, sadly. There wasn’t nearly enough, and it was by no means strong enough. It was a shame they were out of brandy. “It gave me a terrible sinking feeling, though,” he admitted.

“See? You should trust your intuition more,” said Auryen, expansively. “This Cyrelian’s not just within the requisite degree of kinship-- he’s within the first degree of kinship.”

Ancano froze, calculating. “Son?” he hazarded. It didn't seem likely, but with mages one never knew.

“Brother,” corrected Auryen Morellus. “Younger brother by quite a few decades. Oh, my mistake. Second-degree: half-brother. Different mother, of course. He told me Elenwen was actually his heir. To an otherwise male-entailed estate. Fairly substantive one, as I recall. That would make sense given the history of that house--it’s been somewhat infamously locked up in legal proceedings. What I’d give to get my hands on Ata-Aldmeris’ library alone...” Auryen sighed. “Not to mention all the antiquities he collected out of Cyrodiil and Valenwood, before so much was lost in the Anguish. I heard he had the second-biggest collection outside of Blacklight. Though I’d wager that’s an exaggeration. I do hope they have someone looking after all those things. What a pity if they were all ruined.” 

Auryen coughed sheepishly:

“I’m afraid that I discounted much of what this Cyrelian said as paranoid ramblings; he seemed to have quite a degree of animosity towards his sister. He seemed to believe her directly responsible for his circumstances.” He laughed, a bit deprecatingly. “Certainly he was not feeling well. He seemed to believe that the First Emissary had ordered her subordinates to assault him-- either to kill him outright, or to cause him to be discredited and disgraced. How absurd.”

Ancano found himself uncorking a bottle for something to give his hands to do; by no means did he want another cold drink any longer. Despite the rekindled fire, he was chilled clear through. 

“Indeed,” Ancano said, in the same light tones, as though he were taking it not-at-all seriously. “But do we really think an investigative team from Alinor would discard any theory out of hand? Even one so improbable? And of course they’d be looking into all of the turmoil--” 

He got up to move about the room, pretending an idle restlessness which he did not feel. Frankly, he wanted to run. He settled for pacing.

“Oh?”

“I’ve heard the oddest things of late,” Ancano reflected. “Coming out of this place. Haafingar. None of it made any sense to me. Like, a senior Justiciar turned up on the discharged-dead list with no further commentary. Very senior. Place of death: Northwatch Keep. But he was assigned to the Embassy itself-- part of the standing security crew. Shouldn’t have been out at Northwatch Keep. At all. Not supposed to leave the premises unless on patrol or sanctioned leave. He wasn't logged on either.” Ancano picked up his half-empty bottle and chose to drink it off. “Unpleasant fellow. One of Elenwen’s pets. Grasping. You know the sort. Pardon.” He stifled a belch.

“Anyplace else, we lose that many people in one day, we’d be ripping down buildings and setting everything on fire--” Ancano tried to slow himself down, he WAS drunk --”but our esteemed First Emissary does nothing. Nothing. Unfortunately I think…" he scowled. "I think that would be closely examined.”

He looked at Auryen Morellus, who wasn’t displaying any particular reaction. His face was wholly serene.

“Not even a formal expression of condolence to the families,” Ancano continued. “Very much unlike her-- she spends a great deal of time keeping up face. And ever since then, the oddest allocation of duty assignments. Senior people left doing nothing but standing guard on empty buildings. Juniors assigned to hazardous duty out in the field. And the First Emissary herself, mostly-incommunicado, always anywhere-but-here. Chasing dragons. Allegedly.”

“Equally interesting that I’ve heard nothing either. No criticisms,” said Auryen. “Then again, the sheltering cloak of nepotism spreads awfully far, and Elenwen’s been the Second Council’s fair-haired girl ever since her esteemed parent put her up for consideration.” Auryen brightened: “Cheer up, at least no one will fault you now for not keeping the First Emissary apprised of your doings-- it will be perfectly understandable given its context. Maybe they’ll commend you for taking such good care with the inquiry.”

“Or maybe they’ll stick my head on a pike in some corner of a classroom in Shimmerene as a warning to all those who dare presume to climb beyond their station,” retorted Ancano. 

He dropped the pretense.

“You were right,” Ancano complained. “There’s nothing about any of the information you’ve given me that’s helpful-- now all you’ve done is terrify me. What a--” He concealed a yawn--” horrible situation to be in. Lovely. I was already fairly motivated to try to get this young one healed to begin with; and now with what you’re saying-- if I don’t, we face a full-scale Inquiry out of Alinor… and the probable recall of the First Emissary on suspicions of official misconduct.”

“Indeed. We’ve all nurtured a delicate balance here,” said Auryen Morellus. “I’d rather hate to see anyone else’s thumb on the scales.”

Ancano brooded.

Such a delight, Elenwen was-- particularly when it concerned to awkward questions about her familial circumstances, control over her own subordinates, her presence or absence from her duty assignment, allocation of Dominion resources, general questions of competence…she’d certainly be looking for enemies to take down with her, regardless of whether or not she had perpetrated this outrage against her younger kinsman. 

“I can get you your answers,” said Auryen, abruptly, interrupting Ancano’s dark thoughts. “Write down your questions, and I’ll have them taken to the Restoration mage, and then you--”

Ancano rubbed his face. “I’m afraid that would be too unwieldy, for the number of follow-up questions I would anticipate.”

There was further negotiation, blessedly brief.

“If I cared to rank all the things that I do not care about, corruption-of-blood by some Dominion citizen who isn’t even a member of the Thalmor--” Ancano scowled. "Oh, of course, a Redguard from out of one of the formerly occupied territories. Who is likely, if I'm getting the generations right, a product of corruption-of-blood herself. I promise, I'll try not to frighten these people. I didn't even bring my blacks. So. Where is this mage?"

It was full dawn, now. No more time to waste.

Ancano scratched at the door, gently. He had managed to persuade a laundry maid to let him into the building, but it was still dark and quiet as its denizens slept. Thankfully he'd been escorted directly to the mage's quarters, because even with the little he'd seen, this place was a dizzying labryinth.

There was movement. He tapped a bit louder.

The door opened just enough to allow the lady behind it to exit. 

Ancano blinked, because he had not been fully advised: this Redguard was truly lovely, with a sweet-faced expression that suggested a gentle disposition. He rather thought, looking at her, that even the Convention itself might let Master Lorion off with no more than a warning; it would certainly represent an excusable lapse. 

She made a gesture for Ancano to be silent and shut it behind herself, leading him back out toward the main hallway. She settled herself in and sighed, as if her feet hurt.

"He's finally asleep," she said in a curious hoarse voice. "I'm Fironet. Was there something that you needed from him? Is it urgent?"

“There is indeed,” he said. “But it can wait until he awakens, if he is still sleeping. I was hoping to consult with him about a particular--”

“You’re one of those Thalmor,” she said, dubiously. “A Justiciar.” 

Ancano smiled, tautly. “Yes.” 

How in Oblivion did this creature-- he was going to have to get out in the field more. Clearly he was out of practice.

“Not why I’m here, though," he said, tightly. "I wanted to get his professional opinion on a situation I'm monitoring; I’m a Restoration Master myself."

“Of course,” she said, dimpling as if she'd read his thought. “You must be Master Ancano. Lorion's often spoken of you." She smiled up at him. "He always says that you were easier to get along with than Master Colette. Have you eaten? The food here is good." She took in his evidently sleepless condition: "And if you like I could show you to a place where you can put your things down and rest."

Ancano sighed. "I am in somewhat of a hurry," he said. "There is a ship waiting on me. I can sleep once aboard. I'll be ready for the interview as soon as he is."

Lorion, when he finally came in, looked unutterably weary. For a few seconds Lorion looked almost pleased to see him, until Ancano related the information he’d come to share: That Ancano’d come to Lorion to beg his help, rather than to offer it.

Lorion was already a mer drowning, and Ancano had thrown him not an oar, but an anchor. His shoulders sagged.

“Gods,” he swore. “How could I have missed that? How?!” 

He looked at Ancano, a little desperate. “He would not let me look at him,” he remembered-- “I got him to pull his tunic aside so I could deal with the gouges on his chest and arms and back-- but he absolutely refused to let me conduct a full examination. Oh, gods. I should have pressed the issue. I could have had Sorex assist... he kept on refusing!” He held his face. "I really did not want to have to wrestle with him."

“Not surprising,” said Ancano. “He had reasons to wish to conceal his injuries. What else do you remember?”

Lorion detailed what he’d done for the young Justiciar, running through each and every detail, trying desperately to find some symptom he’d failed to notice, some sign or signal.

They spoke for some time. 

“I wouldn’t beat yourself up,” Ancano advised, soothingly. “My main concern was whether anyone’d seen the abdominal injury while it was still fresh. It’s quite difficult to tell what it could be, now. But it seems like he was fairly active in the first few days after it happened? That's heartening. So--” he frowned. “I’ll have to take the risk, I’m afraid, and send that note off to Evrard for him to get started.”

“The Ambassador lets me use his message-birds on occasion,” said Master Lorion, urgently eager to please. “I could go up there for you, or send someone... if you didn't want to cause a stir. We could get that message sent to Winterhold today, and it might even be there by tomorrow.”

Ancano hesitated.

“While I’m here-- would you like for me to come in and take a look at your patient? Be happy to consult in if the family agrees.” offered Ancano. 

Lorion was pathetically grateful to accept.

“You have got to be kidding,” said the Imperial, who’d grudgingly given Ancano his name: Sorex Vinius. 

“Yes, Master Ancano’s a Thalmor Justiciar but he’s also a Restoration mage,” argued Lorion. “He’s been at Winterhold... um...just about forever."

If by forever one meant five years-- years which had been preceded by two and half decades' absence. Ancano'd been perfectly content as one of Winterhold's Restoration instructors, but that had been more than thirty years past. On the eve of the late war, Alinor had called its mages home. 

If he focused his attention narrowly, Ancano could almost forget those interceding years. Winterhold's healers had walked their circuits, back then, before the Archmage's prohibition. This negotiation with distraught family members was almost comforting in its familiarity. 

“My training in the art of Restoration took place on Alinor,” Ancano said. “In Shimmerene, to be precise. But I did a great deal of practical work here in Skyrim, before I returned to the College and my new assignment.” He shrugged off this human's hostility: “Currently I am the Dominion’s Advisor to the Archmage-- they save all of that Concordat enforcement work for mer far junior to me." 

Lorion made his own further attempts at persuasion, to no avail. He looked at Ancano, beseechingly.

“Please,” Ancano said. “Master Lorion’s been of very great help to me today. I’d be obliged to you if you would allow me to return the favor.” 

Sorex Vinus crossed his arms: “No.”

“Let him try,” came a voice from the other side of the doorway; a normally cheerful voice that grief had rendered leaden.

Sorex Vinius immediately backed down, as his father came into the room. “Ah. Alright. I’ll um-- I don’t know what you need to--”

“Whatever you think can be done,” said Corpulus Vinius, exhausted. “I--” He regarded Ancano. "Anything," he said.

Ancano came in, and immediately introduced himself to the lady in the bed. At a glance he could tell see that speaking to her was futile; still, it were better done than not.

"Would you mind running through it all again?" Ancano requested. "As if I know nothing." He did know nothing.

Corpulus Vinius sighed. He rubbed his face. 

"You would have to ask the boy," he said, huskily. "I don't-- I didn't think it was serious at first and I was trying to keep up with all the work for the first few days...by the time we knew it was this bad, it was too late."

Ancano nodded. 

He stood near the human lady for a lengthy time, making silent observations and speaking to her from time to time, although she was well beyond any possibility of response. 

It was evident from her condition that there was not much more that could be done.

"I was there," said Fironet. “She fell over the chair and hit her head on the corner of the table. That Imperial officer said his men didn’t mean to do it, and Mariel told us not to take offense-- that it was her own clumsiness. We thought it was just a swollen ankle, then. I mean, she hit her head, but that didn’t seem like anything much.” 

She sighed. 

"Her ankle was all puffed up, so she went to lie down and put it up. When she went to sleep, we all thought she was just tired...but after that she just never seemed to wake up fully." Fironet shook her head. "We'd all been working around the clock, what with all of those people who were in here during the --- um--- incident. And then of course we had all of General Tullius' men coming around to ask everybody questions."

"Lorion had gotten caught up over near the Blue Palace," Fironet said. "He couldn't get back to us for a couple of days. She was acting odd and drowsy. Said she had a headache. We thought she was just overtired. And then it got worse and worse."

Fironet regaled him with the details that Corpulus couldn't. None were pleasant. All corroborated the already dismal clinical picture.

"Sorex was angry with Lorion for being gone so long," Fironet whispered, one eye on that worthy, who was angrily restocking the mead bottles behind the bar. "But what was Lorion going to do? He couldn't get past the soldiers either. None of us were allowed to go anywhere at all. We couldn't get help. And we even paid one of the soldiers to get a note up to the General-- it isn't fair!"

Sorex Vinius, passing by with a tray, interjected: "We held out as long as we could. And this is the thanks we get? Damn them! At least the Stormcloaks weren't murdering us."

"You need to be quiet," said Fironet to Sorex, fearfully.

There were customers in the common-room. Drinking. And listening.

“It is an injury which has produced a condition similar to a type of apoplexy," Ancano explained. "Sadly, there is not much that can be done once the disease processes of the body begin to run wildly amok."

Such as what had happened to the luckless Justiciar who was still awaiting Ancano's return.

"All that one can really do is offer supportive care," Ancano went on. "And hope that the body can heal itself. I can find no flaw in what Master Lorion has done for her; her condition is excellent for someone who has been in this state for awhile."

"Is there any hope that--"

Ancano cursed his own wayward tongue; he had let his thoughts carry himself too far adrift; and now this man was looking at him with unwarranted hopes that he would have to dash--

"My apologies for speaking in the theoretical," he said. "In her case, there can only be one outcome."

Some of these humans had discipline; Corpulus Vinius said nothing, though the light had died in his eyes.

After a few moments Ancano realized that he himself had ceased to be a matter for Corpulus' attention.

"Was there anything that you saw that I might have missed?" asked Lorion, anxiously.

Ancano sighed.

"It's a few hours left till tide," he said. "Let's sit down and you can walk me through it again, all right?"

"It's all very sad," he said in conclusion. "But I don't think that you did anything less than what could be done. These head injuries are tricky; you never know quite what will be. And by the time anyone knew there would be this much trouble, it was far too late to effectuate a surgery."

Lorion nodded, glumly, and prodded unwillingly at the smoked fish on his plate.

"She's in quite good shape for the condition she's in," said Ancano. "No one could ask for better care. It is unfortunate that there is nothing more that could be done." Save for calling in the Arkay priest; but as that fellow had been eating his breakfast in the common-room, Ancano suspected that had already been done.

"Have you heard any news from Markarth of late?" Ancano asked, changing the subject. 

They spoke a little of other things; the newest postings, a bit of the society gossip here and there from Alinor. Ancano paid little heed to such things, and it surprised him that Lorion knew as much as he did. Knowledge gleaned is never wasted, Ancano supposed.

Fironet brought them more food; Ancano was surprised to find himself hungry. When he looked, the light from the windows told him that it was well past noon. There was something still bothering him about the young Justiciar's injuries and the state of overhealing that Ancano'd found him in...he continued to mull it over.

When the Redguard girl brought him another cold cup of cider, he was surprised to find that he had come to a resolution.

"I will not need to bring your name into any of this mess," he told Lorion. "Attending to superficial cuts and a few bruises? Too trivial for me to even justify the expense of bringing in an examiner and getting a formal statement." 

Much less the cost of sending this well-intentioned mer back to Alinor to face the wolves.

Lorion nodded. He didn't say much in response, but Ancano could see that he was breathing easier now. 

"Since we have a little time," Ancano suggested. "I know you couldn't possibly render any opinion without having the opportunity to conduct your own examination-- but perhaps you could review what I've observed thus far? I really don't have much as much practical expertise on magickal backlash injuries as I'd like-- this young mer evidently burned clean through all of his magicka and his residuum in his efforts to heal himself..."

Lorion coughed diffidently and offered a couple of suggestions. He had never seen an overhealing injury, no-- but he'd had to deal with a couple of Breton bards who had overspent themselves on Alteration magick in trying to keep their ship steady during a sea-squall.

They spoke for some time, their conversation wending its way naturally back to the subject of the woman who lay dying in the next room. Ancano had a few-- a very few; Lorion was rather thorough-- suggestions for her and her family's comfort.

Lorion was still unhappy with the quality of his own work.

With any luck, Ancano's unfortunate young colleague would someday be able to assure poor Master Lorion that he was faultless in this matter. The other healer-mage was still wearing an expression that Ancano knew too well: recounting every tiny error in judgment and every lapse in attention.

“Come down sometime and speak with Master Colette-- I’m sure she’d be able to give you a much critical review,” Ancano suggested, as he got up to gather his things. "You don't have to worry about her going too easy on you-- she doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"I may do that," agreed Lorion.


	6. Erdi: Lost (Winterhold, Tirdas, 10th of Sun's Dusk 4e202)

"Sun's going down quick," Ahtar observed. "We better hurry."

"Is it safe?" Erdi wanted to know. It was just herself and Ahtar, and they were headed out of town up onto the mountain path towards the shrine. She had only her iron dagger, but he had a bow and a full quiver of arrows, as well as a two-handed greataxe that he'd borrowed from the jarl's armory.

"Yeah, Korir keeps it pretty well patrolled, and we go out every few days to take care of the wildlife. Got to keep it safe for the pilgrims. They like to come in town and spend money." 

Erdi bit off a curse.

Ahtar glanced back: "You okay?"

Erdi's feet had skidded and she'd had to break into a run to keep from falling onto the slushy-wet cobblestones.

"I meant the road itself," she said, cross with herself.

"Heh. Not so much. Watch your step, the wind gets gets bad up here."

They climbed up the last few steps just as the priestess began the ritual.

It was just themselves and a couple of Dunmer pilgrims, who glanced at the two of them, incurious.

Erdi hoped the service wouldn't take too long.

Erdi shivered, trying not to let her teeth chatter too loudly. Ahtar put his arm about her, pulling her half in front of him, sheltering her from the cold. He had a cloak; she didn't, and the temperature was dropping rapidly.

The priestess went on, her beautiful husky voice rising over the wind. 

Erdi had been a bit concerned that the two of them would be asked to take part, but even the pilgrims did no more than stand silently, heads bowed.

"We are children of the Twilight. Beings who are to be guided from the darkness into the light. And from the light into darkness." intoned the priestess. 

Erdi elbowed Ahtar in the ribs: that sounded like the kinds of things Cyr would keep saying. Maybe not so much that last bit. Being guided from light into darkness didn't sound very Altmeri. Ahtar put his other arm about her, and tucked the cloak around both of them. Every bit of warmth helped.

"Almost over," he murmured.

"I'm alright," she whispered, and lingered to watch the two Dunmer come forward to kneel at the shrine and receive Azura's blessing. "Doesn't seem all that different from an Aedric rite," she said softly, once they were done.

"Do you want to go closer and see the shrine itself? Aranea won't mind." Ahtar waited for the Dunmer pilgrims to go by, and ushered Erdi up to the front.

"Azura has seen your coming, traveler," said Aranea Ienith. "It was not curiosity, but fate, that has led you here."

"Um?" Erdi looked to Ahtar for rescue, but all he did was shrug. 

"Seen my coming? What do you mean?" Erdi asked. She listened for any internal voices, but Lord Sheogorath was silent.  
"Azura has given me the gift of foresight. I had a vision of you walking up the steps to this altar long before you were born. You have been chosen to be her champion."

"Me?!" said Erdi. "Oh, no, no no." 

Blessedly, Sheogorath did not seem to be paying any attention.

"One of her champions," said Ahtar, close by her ear. "Think she's got a few. Said something kinda similar to me. Listen."

"I know it is unexpected," said the Dunmer priestess, kindly. "But it will all unfold as she has predicted." Her hands drifted upwards and then downwards. Invocation; benediction. Her aura of grandeur faded, and now she was just an ordinary Dunmer lady in a faded evening-blue robe.

"Uh-huh," said Ahtar, mildly. "Azura telling us what to do, yet? Where to go?"

Aranea shook her head. "Not yet," she said. "It's still just 'a fortress endangered by water, yet untouched by it'... Nothing else in a long time."

"That's not very helpful," said Erdi. 

"Yeah, we all thought Azura mighta meant the College of Winterhold because she said this stuff about an elven mage--but we asked Ancano and he didn't know. And he's been there longer than any of 'em except the Arch--Mage. If'n you don't count the war years." Ahtar rubbed his face and spoke to the priestess: "You comin' down for supper? Thaena said it's deviled beef ribs. Buttermilk rolls. Salmon chowder."

Aranea glanced up at the thickening clouds. "I think I will, thanks. Let me get my things, just in case the weather doesn't allow me to get back. Hopefully all of this will clear in time for the dawn ritual." She smiled at them. "Assuming we get any pilgrims at all. Usually not for the dawn service, this time of year. If not, I can perform the rites in town." She smiled. "I do like Thaena's breakfast."

"Don't you get cold up here?" Erdi asked, curious. The priestess had no more than a small tent and a hide windbreak. She wore no more than a simple robe.

"I'm a Destruction mage, dear. Destruction/Alteration. And my tent has a number of warming-stones, so even if something should happen and my magicka fail, I'd still be nice and snug." She grimaced. "The worst part is really these steep stairs, when it melts off and re-freezes. Or if it rains. They get horribly slick. Dangerous."

"She's so overwhelming," said Erdi, looking back up at the looming figure of the goddess as they made their way carefully downslope.

"Yeah, when I first saw her I thought so too-- but I feel kinda good about it, you know? Like there’s a friend there watching over me." Ahtar cleared his throat. "Foolish." He settled the priestess' bundle more firmly on his shoulder.

"I don't think it's foolish at all," said Aranea Ienith. "Azura guides those who seeking a new path or a new home. All who find themselves caught betwixt and between. All those who are lost."

"Lost." Erdi glanced over just in time to catch a glimpse of Ahtar's unguarded face. Almost too low to be audible, he went on: "I'm the one who's lost. I want my wife. I want my house. I just want to go home." 

"I don't know a whole lot about Azura," Erdi said to Aranea, jumping in quickly. "I was at the Temple of Dibella for awhile, but the Sisters didn't teach us much about the Daedra. Not even the good ones."

"Azura is the Goddess of Dawn and Dusk, who sees into the Twilight of the future, and guides her followers through it," said Aranea, with conviction. "She sent a vision to guide her true followers away from Vvardenfell before the worst came. The shrine is our thanks to her. That none will forget that she watches over us all."

"Is there only one priest stationed up here at a time?" Erdi asked.

"There were others at first," said Aranea Ienith, pointing way back up toward the base of the plinth, where it looked like a small settlement had once been. "Azura's visions tested everyone's faith. One by one, they left. Afraid to know their own future. But I refuse to abandon the shrine. These visions are a gift. Azura warns me of tragedy, war, death before it happens. I won't leave her guidance."

"Even if there's a blizzard or something?" Erdi wanted to know. "What would happen if you got stuck in your tent, and ran out of food?"

"Azura ain't let her freeze or starve to death yet," said Ahtar.

"Azura guides and advises," said Aranea, amused. "When it is safe to remain. When it is wise to seek better shelter. And when the jarl's wife makes bread pudding with apples," she said, inhaling deeply.

Ahtar snorted.

"That's cheating," said Erdi, immediately. The wind was coming in from that direction and they'd been smelling cinnamon for at least the past quarter-mile.

The priestess laughed.

"Go on and eat if you like," said Erdi, as they came in. "I want to see Cyr." She hadn't been able to, earlier. That Thalmor mage had been doing some kind of healing magick that Thaena'd said couldn't be disturbed.

"Would you--" Ahtar began.

"Yes," said Aranea Ienith. "I can take a look."

"Well," Erdi sighed. "At least he doesn't look quite as bad as when I left you two at Dawnstar," she said. That was not really true, but--"His color's a lot better."

She bent to look at one of the stasis-field's binding stones. 

"I've seen one of these before," Aranea commented. "Never so many in one place before. I wonder if they manufacture them at Winterhold?"

"They do not," said Advisor Ancano, looking up from his book. "One of the Arch-Mages condemned them as necromantic a few hundred years back and banned them from the premises. These came from Skywatch, on Auridon."

"Rather expensive," said Azura's priestess.

Ancano said: "With this number, they can be arrayed in series rather than used one-at-a-time. Given time, they can regenerate themselves from ground, so I swap out the most depleted to allow for a recharge. They last a great deal longer this way."

Aranea Ienith asked a few more technical questions, and then indicated the stone at the back left. "That one's flickering," she said. Erdi couldn't see any difference between it and the others.

Ancano came to look it over. "I'll change it out in the morning," he said. "It will hold till then." He nudged another stone a few hairs closer to it.

"Does Azura ever tell you anything about other people?" Erdi asked, quietly. "Or do you have to wait for a vision?"

Aranea Ienith did not answer her.

Ahtar had moved to stroke the strands of hair out of Cyrelian's face. 

"He is wholly unconscious," said the Advisor, in that irritating Altmer-are-oh-so-superior voice. "Much more so than he would be if he were sleeping. He cannot feel it if you touch him. He cannot hear you."

From Ahtar's frown, he'd already been told this. He hesitated, but then: "Would it, ah-- would it offend his gods if we asked for Azura's blessing?"

The Thalmor Advisor straightened up fully and regarded him in disbelief. He had lost all congeniality. "Even if I had a year, I don't believe I would be able to convey to you just how perverse, upsetting, and offensive that would be to him, his vows, his oath...his family, and his progenitors and ancestors--" he drew breath, calming himself. "Daedra worship is antithetical to the Thalmor."

"It is dinner time," said Thaena coolly, coming in. "And why should your gods care, about whatever-it-is these people do?" She regarded her Talos shrine and smiled thinly. "So long, of course, as they abide by the restrictions of your Concordat." 

And, to Aranea: "The Advisor has said it: Cyrelian cannot hear you. He cannot sense your presence or what you do here." 

To Ancano: "Go. Eat. Rest. Take your ease. I'll sit here with him. I don't want to see you back here for at least a couple of hours."

Advisor Ancano went.

"How--ah-- did you do that?" Ahtar questioned.

Thaena shrugged. "It is my house," she said, and went to settle herself on the rug.

The Dunmer priestess had gone silent. The rest of them followed suit as well. After a few long moments, Aranea Ienith said, quietly: "I do not think that Azura wishes to give him her blessing. I will simply pray."

Erdi squeezed Ahtar's arm. "The Daedric Prince Vaermina refused to grant me her blessing," she said. Not that she'd wanted it. "Because I was already under the hand of Dibella. Maybe it is the same for Cyr and Auriel?"

Ahtar was upset: "He never said he was any kind of priest or acolyte or--"

"Dunmer and Altmer are not so far removed from each other as their kind might claim," Aranea observed, calmly. "Many of our customs remain similar. It is a common practice for certain religious obligations or even priesthoods to run in families-- the eldest daughter or son, and so on. It's not nearly as onerous as being cloistered, and it isn't generally discussed. He might not have thought to mention it." She smiled. "That is by far a more likely scenario than Azura herself bearing some personal animus towards this young mer."

"Would Azura be able to tell us if he's gonna be all right--" 

Erdi gripped Ahtar's arm harder, willing him to stop. She herself had already asked and the priestess had said nothing; that was a no.

"I have seen his face before in my dreams," Aranea acknowledged, uncomfortable. "But I do not know how or where. If I should happen to see something else of use to you in my visions, I will advise. How long has he been in this condition?"

"We took him in towards the end of Frostfall," said Thaena. "He was in pretty bad shape, which is why the Advisor put him under. But if the Advisor thinks he's doing well, I would have faith in that. My Yllga was in a very bad way-- we had started the Arkay rites-- and you see how she's doing now. It was like a miracle."

Azura's priestess nodded, her face still drawn and serious. "We will hope for the best," she said.

When morning came Erdi and Ahtar went out again, this time to walk the bounds of town.

"My gods, what must have happened here?" she asked. "We must be hundreds of feet above the sea level, and yet--" Far below them, the Sea of Ghosts shimmered leaden grey.

"Korir and a couple a the dumber locals think it had something to do with the College," said Ahtar. "Magickal experiment gone wrong; some kinda town-and-gown dispute; somebody fucking around with gods know what and drawing the ire of some Divine..." He coughed. "Nobody with any education thinks that could even be possible. Well, maybe that last bit. I mean, look at this place. Had to have been one hell of a tidal wave." 

He was quiet for a little. 

"Nelacar told me the Dunmer did it, that they had an accident with some kind of magickal thing that set off Red Mountain. Kind of like waves through a puddle, and this is where all the waves came in together to do more damage."

"What does Aranea say?" asked Erdi, curious.

"That there are hundreds of ruined settlements the size of this one scattered across what's left of Vvardenfell, and maybe the people here should be thankful the Collapse wasn't worse and more wide-spread. The Dunmer didn't do anything to cause all this. Same kinda thing happened to them, and worse." He rubbed at his chin, and went to gaze over the cliff-face, taking hold of Erdi's arm when she went a bit too far in that direction. "I asked her what the fuck kind of magicka could cause something like that, and she said it was a moon falling out of the sky." He shrugged. "Something to do with a false god-- or a dead god-- and one really pissed off Daedra."

"Lies," said a familiar voice. It sounded sleepy. "Wasn't angry. It wasn't MY fault what happened. Somebody just happened to wander off... leaving the kettle on the fire. Whoops! Oh, look, it must be the madgod's fault, because he left it there... Centuries and centuries ago."

"Hold on," said Erdi, to Ahtar. 

And, to Lord Sheogorath: "What do you know about all of this mess?"

Sheogorath sniffed: "Not my mess. Why don't you go ask your pretty little friend?"

"You know, other people who go crazy, I don't know, they think they're Shor come again; or they wanna constantly take off their clothes; start yelling about monsters and vampires and shit; or scream that demons have gotten into their eyeballs; or keep saying Reverend Silana wants to feel them up..." Whatever Ahtar was saying was ridiculously profane and not very pertinent; Erdi turned her attention from it. "You're the only one I know who all she gets is a buncha backchat," he finished.

"Sometimes more than that," said Erdi, frowning, because she was trying to listen to Lord Sheogorath.

Then she said to Ahtar: "Did Lady Azura happen to mention something to Aranea...about a star?"

"Oh, yeah, star..." Ahtar gestured at the sky. "We figured star-- elven mage-- you know, symbol, Auriel. Ancano couldn't make heads nor tails of it though. Think he used to be some kind of priest for the Thalmor or something, he knew a lot. But he said it didn't fit in with any stories he knew."

"Maybe that interpretation wasn't correct," said Erdi. "We should ask around."

"Hmf," said Sheogorath. "Dolt." His presence receded.

"Wow," said Erdi. "Does Korir really think he's going to be able to make something out of this place?" She surveyed the broken-down buildings with dismay. "It looks like all of this was built after the Collapse... and then what? Was it just abandoned? Or was there some other great catastrophe?"

"Abandoned," said Ahtar. "Times kept getting tougher here." He pointed out a few ridges of stone here and there. "Houses here got built on the stone foundations of the old buildings. Those foundations and basements-- most of 'em are still intact. Lots of them interconnect-- it's like a city under a city."

"Huh," said Erdi, wincing a little at his choice of phrase. "Winter must get awful here sometimes."

"Yeah, Korir says it's been pretty balmy so far. Anyways, I wanted to show you something."

The something that Ahtar wanted to show her was a house that was only partly ruined. It had all of its walls, and a roof-- and even better, a fireplace that was now working.

"Hey," she said as they emerged outside. "That's not bad." She looked around. "Is it a freehold? Does it come together with this yard?"

Ahtar stood up and brushed his hands clear. "Ranmir worked on the house some with me this past couple weeks. He's good at carpentry. Jarl's willing to let us stay in it if we fix it up. I dunno about the land-grant though. We just talked about the rent." 

He showed Erdi an odd-looking hole in part of the floor. "Best part is, we found this-- a passage which goes down to the old springhouse. A hot springs, even. Nobody knew it was still there. So maybe Winterhold gets a bath again."

"Could make some money with that," said Erdi, calculating. "Might bring in more people, too."

"Maybe so." Ahtar shrugged. "You was wanting to get set up in business, might not be a bad spot for that, either. Better than trying to set up against Birna." The house itself faced onto a side street, but there was a gap for an entry off the main road which led to Windhelm. Any pilgrims walking around coming from there or the Azura shrine would pass the house before they got to Winterhold's inn.

"It's a thought," said Erdi. "Birna's not really doing a whole lot of business. Not enough people coming into town to buy things."

"Look around you," said the jarl. "Winterhold's in the state it's in because of those damned mages." He cleared his throat. "Who knows what in Oblivion they did? And who cares-- just see the result. Winterhold used to be the seat of power in Skyrim. Now it's just a shell. Just a few families left hanging on. I guess to keep me and my cows company. Hah."

Erdi took a seat. "You aim to change all that," she said, thoughtfully.

"I do!" Korir stopped pacing for a moment. "It isn't just that Winterhold has lost its buildings and its population-- it's lost all of its history. And with that-- the source of its power." Jarl Korir laughed. "Foolish conceit, I know. But I feel like if we had some of that back again, Winterhold would be able to draw from its old roots. Grow stronger."

"Well," said Erdi. "I don't think that's foolish at all. I have a friend who's out there conducting archaeological expeditions on much the same theory. If everything about a place is lost and forgotten, what importance can it hold?" She paused. "Is there anything that you think I could do to help? I could try to get into contact with him again--" 

If Erdi could help get Marcus a jarl's patronage, he wouldn't need the Dovahkiin, at least not for the granting-permissions part of things. Maybe that would help? Assuming, of course, that Jarl Skald ever released Marcus, and that Marcus got over whatever was wrong with his thoughts.

"--But I was really looking for some work that I could do right now," she finished. 

"I do have something," said the jarl, thoughtfully. "Kind of like to get a start on it as soon as possible." He took a seat, and leaned forward: "I've heard rumors of the resting place of the Helm of Winterhold, the very same helm that Jarl Hanse wore in the First Era. Hanse was in line to be the High King of Skyrim, you know. Having that helm might get the ear of the other Holds and give me some authority." He laughed: "Right now, even my cows don't listen to me! And why should they..." He thumped the table, as if it were a stubborn bovine. "I am the jarl of nowhere and nothing."

"I can try," Erdi said, nodding. Hopefully there would not be too much digging involved. Or revenants. They'd been bad enough in her dreams; she really didn't want to see any of those things anytime soon. "So where is this helm?"

"So that's what he said-- these people who belong to this... Silver Hand. I'm not sure what you'd call it."

"Oh, werewolf hunters," said Ahtar, dismissively.

Erdi squinted at him. 

"We didn't let'm take over any land in Haafingar. See, this is how it works-- you go around like sellswords, saying you're there to protect people from these terrible monsters..."

"I hardly see what's wrong with that," said Erdi, puzzled.

"Monsters that look just like you'n me, Erdi. Or maybe the neighbor. Monsters who look like anybody who hasn't contributed enough cash to their cause. Or someone they think who looks like might make a good scapegoat."

"Oh," said Erdi. "Like those fake witch-hunters." Or the Thalmor.

"Yeah," Ahtar said. "Who knows, maybe the rank and file is sincere. The leaders-- they ain't. Not the kind of operation you can trust."

He looked down the street at the Winterhold guards, and said: "Korir had a dozen or so men leave to join the Stormcloaks the last time they came through recruiting. He'd probably let you take a few guys along, but that'd leave Winterhold awfully short-handed. Not sure that's the best plan. Anyways, there's not near enough men to spare to reduce a fortress. You're just gonna have to go up there to these people and ask nicely."

"Aren't you coming with?" asked Erdi, apprehensive. Would she have to do this alone? She didn't look threatening enough for someone from a militia to listen to her. Or from a bandit gang. Whichever.

"Love to." Ahtar glanced back at the jarl's longhouse. "Can't."

Erdi sighed: "Nothing's going to change for Cyr on account of you being here or not here," she said. "They'll take care of him. Thaena told me all about the deal they struck with Master Ancano." 

The Thalmor mage would see to their daughter's health; in return the Jarl's family would look after the comatose Justiciar. Not that Cyrelian was a lot of work for anybody, at present. He was so deep in stasis that Erdi'd given up on watching him to see just when he would take a breath. 

Advisor Ancano brought Cyr close to wakefulness only rarely, for nourishment or medicaments or some horrid procedure or other. Cyr did not do well when awake, and Ancano did not keep him up for long.

"So what happens if he does wake up?"

"I'm not sure that he will," said Erdi, doubtfully. She added, hastily: "Soon, I mean. And don't you think we should try to make what money we can while he's still out? He'll probably need us more later on, once he's starting to get up and about." 

"True," mused Ahtar. 

He hadn't seemed to notice her little lapse, thank Dibella. Silently, Erdi promised a honey-cake. 

"And the weather's still good enough for travel," said Erdi. "I think we should probably take advantage of that while we can. Thongolf told me that there have been winters here with people stuck inside their homes for weeks. How far away is this place?"

"Fort Fellhammer?" Just over the mountains to the southwest. Used to be Winterhold's southern defenses. Town there's long gone. Thongolf says that the mountain passes down that way might close any day, though," said Ahtar. 

He thought about it for a moment. 

"Boat to Dawnstar, then south down Pale Pass Road," he said. "We can stop at that little shrine to Dibella you're always talking about. Stay the night at the Hall of the Vigilant, if you don't mind Stendarr priests."

"I don't mind Stendarr priests," said Erdi, thinking of Jod. "What then?" 

"It's a long day there and back from Fellhammer, but it can be done if the weather's not too bad," said Ahtar. "Or-- well, Heljarchen's down that way. So what'd the jarl tell you we can promise these guys?" 

Since the nascent kingdom of Winterhold held almost no cash, and very little in the way of assets. Cows. Lots of cheeses, set aside to age in the dry Winterhold caverns below what was left of the city. Plenty of horker hides. Not much else.

"They've been petitioning Jarl Korir," Erdi said. "The Silver Hand wants him to recognize them; they want rights to their steading."

"Which just so happens to be Fort Fellhammer," said Ahtar. "Korir'd be a fool to say yes." He frowned, thinking.

"No," said Ahtar, at length. "Could be I'm wrong, and they're for real. He'd get a trained militia, at least nominally loyal to him, defending a fortress which he doesn't have the men to occupy. Might be the next best thing to bandits, but they'll keep worse bandits out, I guess." He laughed without humor: "Korir already tried to talk Ulfric into having the Stormcloaks man Fellhammer for him. No dice."

"You said it. These people could be running a legitimate organization," Erdi said.

Ahtar cleared his throat. "We can do this. Run down there, talk to these guys, get the Crown. Scout around. Give Korir some idea of what he's dealing with, at least."

"So that's what the priestess said to Ahtar," Erdi told him. "A fortress threatened by water and an elven mage who studies stars."

"Who is this priestess?" Nelacar demanded. He seemed like he was getting upset. "Who sent you? The College? The Jarl? We agreed there would be no further questions."

"Um? Just Aranea," said Erdi, puzzled at his reaction. "She didn't make a great big deal about it. She just said it was something that Azura told her; something that Azura's champion was supposed to be helping with."

The part about Azura saying that Erdi was her champion, or Ahtar-- or maybe both of them-- Erdi kept that to herself. Nelacar seemed agitated enough.

He calmed himself: "I'm afraid I don't know anything," he said, and turned mournfully back to his sandwich.

Be quiet, Erdi thought at Lord Sheogorath, who was snickering. 

She let Nelacar get a few more bites.

Sheogorath said something that might be useful.

"I think you do," she said to Nelacar. "Because I heard that this has something to do with enchanting, and that's what you do, isn't it?"

Nelacar didn't budge.

"Look," she said. "I don't know what it is, but it seemed like it was pretty important to Aranea and to Azura. Something to do with restoring Lady Azura's proper place here? And she seems to be the protector of Winterhold. So the jarl wanted me to check it out."

Actually it was Thaena who'd asked Erdi to look into it- it was Malur Seloth who wanted this dealt with, but Erdi was fairly certain that the jarl would endorse whatever Thaena said. And it was Malur Seloth who'd said that what Azura was seeking could only be an artifact called Azura's Star, which had gone missing some decades past.

"Every little bit would help," Malur Seloth had said. "A true artifact, that'd bring more pilgrims in for sure. There's a big difference between yet another shrine... and a shrine at which a god has recently been active. We might even get settlers from amongst the devout."

Erdi cleared her throat: "The jarl's family was willing to pay," she said, diffidently. "Maybe not a lot, but--"

"A few coins for my soul?" Nelacar barked a laugh. "If only you understood the irony."

Lord Sheogorath laughed: "If only you understood the irony," he mocked, in Nelacar's own intonation.

Erdi frowned. "If you know something about all this you had better tell me," she said to the madgod, very severely.

Nelacar looked at her in disbelief: "Do you think muscling me is going to work? I'm a wizard. An old. Elven. Wizard. Think about it."

"Old. Elven. Wizard," repeated Sheogorath, and collapsed into gales of laughter. "Oh, go on then," said Sheogorath indulgently. "Tell the Old. Elven. Wizard. About us!"

"Shh!" Erdi admonished. And, to Nelacar: "I'm sorry, that wasn't to you!"

Nelacar had raised his brow.

She sighed. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Be my guest," said Nelacar.

Since it was the table or Nelacar's bed-- Erdi chose the table.  
She tried to explain.

"You're working with the Daedra? One of the most powerful of the Daedric Princes?" Nelacar demanded, and laughed. "Riiiiight. Now tell me the other one, about the lusty baron and the Argonian--"

"I don't know what else to say to convince you," said Erdi, quietly. "I do have Sheogorath's artifacts, but they're locked up for safekeeping in the museum in Solitude. That staff seemed very dangerous. I didn't want to be carrying it around."

And: "Something is going on with Daedric relics. My friend Marcus was certain of it. They seem to be coming into being, or coming back or something... and all ending up in Skyrim. He said something about wyrd and fate, and dragons making it the end of the world and... I just don't know." She pulled her legs up farther. "I talked to Sybille Stentor about it and she says that if Sheogorath is worried about what's going to be happening in Skyrim, that pretty much everybody ought to be on guard."

"Sybille Stentor examined this supposed artifact of Sheogorath's?" Nelacar asked sharply.

"She did," Erdi confirmed. "And she said it was true. She very much wanted it locked up in a magickal vault. So it is." She brooded. 

Then-- "Huh," she said, in response.

And to Nelacar: "Lord Sheogorath just told me to ask you how Malyn Varen's getting along. Whoever that is. He says he 'took a personal interest in that one'-- whatever that means."

"Gods," said Nelacar, going significantly paler. "It's all finally coming back to haunt me."

He was quiet, then--

"What do you know about soul gems?" Nelacar asked, suddenly.

"Uh, they're used for enchanting? Cyr says you can make glove enchantments out of skeevers-- you know, to keep hands warm?"

"Correct. Soul gems are used for enchanting. The gems themselves are frail. They shatter when used. Except for one. In fact--" Erdi blinked. "Why are you changing the subject?" 

"This IS the subject." Nelacar visibly forced himself to take a few more bites. Grimly, he drank some ale. "Soul gems are used in enchanting, and then they break. Except for one."

"Azura's Star. A Daedric artifact that allows any number of souls to pass through it. Some of us wanted to find out how. I was working under Malyn Varen then."

Nelacar sighed: "If only we knew what he was planning."

He looked up at Erdi: "Malyn wanted to alter the Star. He was dying. Disease. He thought he could alter the Star. Become immortal. It drove him mad. Students started dying. Eventually, the College exiled him. He took a few loyal disciples to a place called Ilinalta's Deep and vanished."

Ilinalta's Deep, thought Erdi. Ilinalta. That was a lake near Falkreath, wasn't it?

"Look, I don't care who asked you to find the Star, but don't take it back to Azura," said Nelacar to her, earnestly. "The Daedra are evil. They're the reason Malyn went insane!"

"I don't understand," said Erdi. "I thought Azura was supposed to be one of the good Daedra. How was it that Malyn was driven insane?"

"Azura is no ordinary Daedra," warned Nelacar. "She commands an entire realm inside of Oblivion. The more Malyn worked on the Star, the more she was able to damn him. It started slowly at first." He looked at his hands: "Malyn would see things that weren't there. Then he would yell at students over words they hadn't said. Then one day I walked in and Malyn had... had killed a student."

"That's terrible," said Erdi, feeling faint. Marcus, his face sheened with sweat, in that chilly jail cell. The flash of his knife, as he--

"That's not the worst of it, either," said Nelacar. "In a horrific moment of inspiration, he started using her soul for his work. Horrid."

Erdi bit back a noise of inquiry; Nelacar was clearly very upset.

"It's all right," said the mage, resigned. "Go on."

"Cyr said that you could only use animal souls for enchanting," said Erdi, puzzled. "He said that the gems wouldn't work with...um... sapient beings?"

"Most soul gems will not," agreed Nelacar. "Most soul gems require white souls, which can only come from creatures. But there are black soul gems... evil things... which can only be fueled by the souls of thinking beings. Horrible obscene things."

Erdi drank her mead, thinking. 

"I mentioned how the Star is a soul gem, only it never gets depleted?" said Nelacar. "There's another rule the artifact follows. You can only store white souls in the Star, belonging to the lesser creatures. Azura's magic won't allow black souls to enter it."

"Ah," said Erdi.

"Malyn's soul was black, so part of his work was breaking past Azura's rules. He was close before... well, I already told you."

"Let me get this right," said Erdi. "Malyn Varen meddled with Azura's sacred artifact."

"Yes." Nelcar drank more of his ale. "He did."

"Even though Azura herself decreed that only white souls could enter her gem, Malyn did something to it--altered it somehow--to force it to accept black souls?"

"That is precisely what he did," said Nelacar grimly. "And there are several of us who would very much like to know what he did to accomplish that. And prevent it."

Erdi nodded.

"Can you imagine it?" Nelacar demanded. "If every soul gem could become a powerful black soul gem... our entire area of study would become polluted by... by necromancy! People would be killing each other just to get black souls to keep their knives sharp or their boots dry!"

"It would certainly give enchanters a bad reputation," said Erdi.

"Oh, yes," said Nelacar, grimly. He took a few more savage bites.

"Sounds to me like Azura gave Malyn Varen exactly what he deserved," said Erdi.

A date with you, she said silently, to Lord Sheogorath.

"Not funny," sulked Sheogorath.

"The College would agree with you, but do you have any idea how many innocent lives were cut short, just so Azura could have revenge?" Nelacar said. "Those poor students didn't deserve to die." Nelacar looked very sad. "We're nothing to the Daedra, Erdi. Pawns to move around, praise and punish as they see fit."

That so? thought Erdi.

Sheogorath didn't say anything at all.

"Is Malyn Varen still alive?" Erdi asked Nelacar.

"Gods, no," said Nelacar. "At least, I hope not. It's been some years. His disciples had to carry him out in a sling and it's the sort of disease that only keeps progressing."

"Dead AND alive," said Sheogorath, cheerfully. "That's what happens when you mess around with necromancy and enchanting!"

Am I just a toy to you?, Erdi demanded.

Lord Sheogorath did not answer her.

Does cooperation with the Daedra always lead to disaster?" asked Erdi. "I mean, not your opinion so much as... in your experience?"

"It does," said Nelacar, grimly. "There's much that's bright and shiny-- and even necessary--but in the end we're all just children reaching to grab the coals of the hearthfire. No good can come of it."

"Is it true that Altmer hate Daedra worship?" Erdi asked, curiously. "Ancano said--"

Nelacar laughed without humor. "Ah. The Thalmor." He shook his head. "I'm old. Anything I could tell you would just be a war story, I fear. Certainly the Thalmor campaign vigorously against Daedra worship, but..." he cut himself off.

"But what?"

"No matter," he said. "This association you carry with the Prince of Madness troubles me. Have you considered petitioning the priests of Stendarr? I would very much hate to see you lose your mind, to become no more than another vessel for Sheogorath."

Erdi thanked him for his concern.

"Do you know where this Ilinalta's Deep place is?" she asked.

"I do not," said Nelacar. "If you determine its location, please let me know. Believe me, I would very much like to speak with the local authorities." He brooded. "I did send word to the Jarls of Falkreath and Whiterun, back when-- but I was advised there are any number of ruined fortifications on or nearby that lake. Apparently the water level's risen in the past few centuries."

"I'll see what I can do," promised Erdi.

"If you find the Star, please--" Nelacar looked at her, beseechingly.

"I won't mess around with it," promised Erdi. "I'll bring it straight back to Winterhold."

And do what with it? she wondered. Give it to whom?

But Nelacar didn't seem to even consider that she might choose otherwise. He looked relieved. 

So Erdi left it at that.


	7. Erdi: Abhorrent (The Pale, Middas, 11th of Sun's Dusk 4e202)

"I thought Thongolf told us the weather was going to hold!" Erdi could barely hear anything over the wind.

Ahtar was laughing like a lunatic.

A strong gust had nearly pushed the two of them off the path down the rocky cliff.

"He said it's pretty good weather all told-- gets a lot worse by Warriors Festival," he called, as they came around another switchback. "Probably get locked in by the end of the month."

"This is terrible! How do these people stand it?" Erdi pulled her fur hood up more snugly around her face.

But, as promised, the wind diminished as they came down the steep cliff-face. By the time they got down to the shore, it was no more than a stiff breeze.

Randulf waved at them from the dock. "Let's go!" he called. "Weather's not bad, but neither you nor I want to be out here on the Sea of Ghosts after sunset," he warned. "We're pushing it as it is, with the days getting so short."

Thank goodness the boat to Dawnstar was still running. Neither of them had the gear to trek through the mountains in this cold.

"Ice's coming in pretty good," observed Ahtar. "Port's gonna close soon."

He looked at Erdi. "Do you wanna take a chance at Skald's hospitality? Or would you rather stay with your gal friend over at the Windpeak?"

"She isn't my girlfriend," said Erdi, indignant.

Ahtar kept walking. "You been here three times this past week," he said. "That's practic'ly setting up housekeeping."

"I was helping Birna with deliveries!"

"Uh-huh."

They chose the inn; it was getting late enough that the day workers were leaving the jarl's hall. Not a feast day, today. Perhaps it would be, tomorrow.

"Stay inside," Ahtar cautioned her. "Stay upstairs. I don't want you going downstairs to that bath--"

"Oh? And who's been here more often? I can handle myself. And where are you going?" She threw up her hands. "Never mind! Just... stop telling me what to do."

Abelone brought her a bowl of potato soup and a couple of biscuits with Winterhold's good golden cheese and honey. She recommended the ale as goes-with, and Erdi wasn't sorry she'd ordered it.

One good thing about having little baggage was that there wasn't much for Erdi to look after. As she got warmer, she pushed the fur hood off her shoulders, but the cold gusts that kept coming in as the door opened and shut were enough to keep her from becoming overheated.

Erandur stopped for a couple of words, before he disappeared into one of the side rooms with a young couple who were gripping each other's hands-- evidently wishing to make arrangements with the priest about a wedding; Erdi could hear them talking about ribbons and offering-gifts as she went to take her dishes to the scullery. 

Karita dashed by with a quick smile; she divested herself of a whole tray of plates and cups and darted back towards the kitchens; the place was hopping. A couple of bards started on a piece with skirling pipes and a couple of drums. Erdi's place was already taken by someone waving Thoring down for beer.

Erdi sighed. Tucking her fur cloak around herself, she settled into an empty corner, using her backpack as a cushion. No sense in trying to get a room now, Thoring looked like he was being pulled in a dozen directions at once. It was warm enough. She'd slept in worse places.

"I've heard of this crew," mused Jod, the next morning. "Silver Hand. Skald's been wanting for me to go take a look. They've got a small settlement near Fort Dunstad as well-- sent up here over the summer wanting to get a charter or something. Skald didn't want to give it to them. And Keeper--" 

He broke off.

"You still wanting to go down to the Hall of the Vigilant?" he asked. "Offer's still open."

"I think maybe I ought," said Erdi.

"I was hoping it would settle down, you know?" Erdi said. "I'm not a... a very inspiring person. I thought maybe that Lord Sheogorath would lose interest. But he keeps on. And there's always this... nudging. That's what it feels like, inside my mind."

"I used to have this annoying kid brother-in-law that would follow me around," said Ahtar. "Kinda like that. Askin' stupid questions. Never shut up." 

"You miss him," said Erdi.

"Fuck, yeah. I miss all of 'em. And that Thadric, he could always make you laugh no matter how mad you got. It's a damn shame." Ahtar adjusted his gauntlet. "We gonna do this?"

"Keeper Carcette was asking to meet you," said Jod. "Sent a message down here after I wrote her to explain about the nightmares. She sent a crew out to fully cleanse the Tower of the Dawn. Tried to talk to that friend of yours, but--" 

Jod shook his head. 

"Yeah," said Ahtar. "Speakin' a being annoyed: What exactly happened with my nephew?"

"Marcus? He was too much trouble," said Jod. "Skald had already shipped him off back to Solitude by that time. Said that's where he wanted to go; wanted to get back to the museum there."

"Was he acting less crazy?" Ahtar wanted to know.

"Seemed so. Looked like he could get himself around okay. He told me he really wanted to drop off his sketches and talk to the guy there, before he got stuck here all winter."

"How much money does he owe the jarl?" 

Jod shrugged that off. "Nothing."

"It's fine," said Erdi to Ahtar, annoyed. "I told you not to worry-- we got Marcus all taken care of. I'm sure we'll get a letter or something from him soon." 

She turned to Jod: "Did you tell Keeper Carcette about how the madgod likes to talk to me and Marcus?"

"No," said Jod, heavily, shaking his head. "The Vaermina thing was hard enough to explain. Explaining's not my strong suit."

Ahtar snorted.

"Skald didn't seem any too happy that a Thalmor mage was treating his granddaughter," said Erdi. She pulled her cloak more closely around herself. "I thought maybe he'd have a stroke."

"Yeah, and I didn't like how Skald talked down to Madena like that," Ahtar said. "Not her fault the healing she tried didn't work. Ancano said it's not a .... what'd he say... remediable condition. He's not fixing it; he's just trying to make the little one feel better." 

They walked along, the snow crunching underfoot. It had warmed and thawed and then re-frozen overnight. It wasn't too cold.

Jod was mildly suprised. "A Thalmor mage?"

"Yeah," said Ahtar. "I kinda got the sense of him. One a those battlemages that the Dominion suddenly had too much of after the war. Pulled him off his job over some bullshit; he challenged them in court and won. Been stuck on the ass end of civil service ever since. Big fat title; shit post. Winterhold’s not what you’d call fancy. Anyways he’s an arrogant dick but that’s all right for us, since he’s incapable of letting himself do a bad job doctoring. So he’s pretty... uh. Diligent. And the kid looks a lot better."

Jod snorted. He looked to Erdi. "Too much of a prick for the Thalmor, hah?"

"Ahtar likes him better than I do," said Erdi. "But he's keeping our friend alive, too, so--"

"Huh," said Jod. "Little odd, you keeping company with a Thalmor." 

"Yeah," grumbled Ahtar. "Tell me."

"You should hear how Yorvik tells it--"

Ahtar groaned.

"Mhm," said Erdi. "Cause Thane Yorvik's only told me the story about three times. I was able to get it by heart."

"Think he forgot you was there when it happened?" said Ahtar.

"I love the thing Thane Yorvik does with his eyebrows when he gets to the 'She's my girlfriend' part," said Erdi. "I'll have to have him tell it again so I can get it right."

They stopped for lunch at a small settlement that was perched high on the ridge that lay between Dawnstar and the Hall of the Vigilant.

Erdi picked at her stewed rabbit and ate the last of the carrots greedily. She wasn't at the Blue Palace any longer; she couldn't count on having vegetables in the winter.

"You want it?" Jod asked Ahtar. 

Ahtar shook his head. He hadn't taken any of the stew for himself.

Erdi pushed the remains of the rabbit stew over to Jod.

"Let's see if they have any of those little hand pies," she said. "Should still be apple, this time of year. If not, raisin or currant, maybe."

She waited until they were a half mile or so down the road before she passed her three pies over to Ahtar, silently.

"Thanks for thinking of me," he said, surprised.

"Since I'm responsible for feeding you up and all," said Erdi. "Being your girlfriend. Guess I've got to live up to that little story you told Yorvik."

"Hey," Ahtar protested. "That ain't even a lie." He took a large bite. "If I ever had a girlfriend, I guess it oughta be you," he said, mouth full. "Ain't got no one else to look after me right now." Whatever else he was saying was lost as he stuffed the pie into his mouth and chewed blissfully.

As they walked, Erdi watched him, covertly. 

She was worried about Ahtar; he'd been getting thinner, probably because of the lack of choice about what he could eat. In Solitude, that had never been a problem; everyone ate fish every day, as the sea-trawlers came into the docks-- or as the workers from the curing shacks came up to the market. Even though Winterhold was coastal there wasn't as much available-- it wasn't possible to get up the cliff face from waterside every day. Nor was there anywhere near as much variety in foodstuffs in the winter. Few vegetables and grains. 

It was going to be a long winter for Ahtar, Erdi knew.

Jod sighed with pleasure as they crossed the last outcropping.

"There it is," he said. "Home." 

He started to move a little faster and Erdi broke into a trot to keep up with him.

"Sorry," Jod said, slowing his pace. "It always hits me this way. Like maybe someday I'll be standing here and it'll all be gone." 

"Such a pity," said Lord Sheogorath. "But let's put it this way. It couldn't happen to a nicer crew." He snickered.

Erdi stopped dead. 

She could see it, burning. The roof fallen in, the thatch blackened. The dead, walking. 

Shivering, Erdi turned back towards Dawnstar, but Vaermina's tower was long since obscured by the rolling ridges. 

Ahtar had to come back for her.

"Let me do the talking," Jod advised, as they drew nearer.

As they came up to the yard, they were indeed immediately challenged, but Jod stepped forward and took care of it.

"Sorry," said the Nord who'd been splitting firewood. "Can't be too careful these days. We're hearing about a lot of troubles with bandits and the like." He glared southward. "Bad neighbors."

"Doesn't look like much from the outside, does it?" asked Jod. "Pretty small. Only five or six novices at a time, and they don't have any just now. Too many troubles in Skyrim, and this end of the Pale's right smack in the middle of the fighting. Too much of a risk for folks to send their kin. So the young ones were sent on to Chorrol. Or off to Hammerfell."

"Hold!"

Jod held up a hand. "Dunno if you could see me back here, Harald," he said. "These folks are with me. Here to see Keeper Carcette."

"Yeah, sorry," said Ahtar. "Guess I kinda block out the light." 

Harald looked nonplussed. After a second he closed his mouth and said: "Evening service's about to start. We hold it before sunset now and keep a door warden."

Jod grunted, as if he were unsurprised. "Times're bad," he observed.

A couple of others turned to stare at Erdi and Ahtar as they moved towards the benches. 

"Not very welcoming for a religious order that's supposed to be offering charity, are they," sniped Erdi, under her breath. 

Sheogorath sniffed his agreement.

"Sshh," whispered Ahtar to her, amused. "Think they're starting."

One of the priests was up in front of the altar; when he moved aside Erdi could see that he'd placed a mace in front of the shrine. 

"Oh, I see how it is," grumbled Sheogorath. "We're too good for the Daedra-- Until it comes to expensive weaponry, of course." 

Erdi looked at the mace more closely. It had that tell-tale little shimmer when she looked at it out of the corner of her eye; it held some enchantment on it. Daedric, apparently. Maybe the priests were trying to cleanse or sanctify it or something? Odd.

More of the Vigilants made their way into the hall and sat down.

Erdi had a hard time discerning whether the priest had done something yet to ensure sacred space or not. So she kept still.

"My! What a lively crew this is," observed the madgod, a sentiment which echoed her own. 

If I can't tell my own thoughts from Lord Sheogorath's, Erdi thought wearily, I've come to the right place.

She hoped the service wouldn't take too long. Her feet were cold.

Stendarr's symbol is the horn of hospitality, poured out for those in need. 

Erdi wondered about that.

There was nothing on Stendarr's altar that gave any sign that this priory tended to the less fortunate. Where was the food and drink; the warming-basin and cloths for the hand-washing; the oils for anointing the sick, and so on? The altar seemed as cold and barren as the rest of this place.

Where were their provisions for travelers in need? Erdi had seen nothing in the entry-foyer that suggested that the priests gave aid. Maybe they left it all to the local thane.

Someone opened the door to the outside and held it open for a good minute. 

Erdi shivered and drew her fur hood up against the freezing-cold draft.

Finally the door was closed and bolted fast, a bare moment before sunset.

One by one the priests approached the altar.

Some of the gestures looked familiar.

Others did not. 

What were they doing?

Each priest went through a sequence of meditative movement. Some seemed to be beginning in different places than others. Was it a walking meditation? Some kind of breathing exercise derived from combat practice?

Erdi would have to ask Jod later.

Sheogorath was quiet, as if he were watching, intent.

Silently, Jod had moved to the other row of benches. At his turn, he also came forward.

Then there was some sort of quietly chanted prayer; Erdi couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

The words slurred together and went by too quick.

At least the prayer went in unison; there was no call and response.

Erdi looked back at Ahtar, who shrugged boredom. He didn't know either. He scooted over a bit further, so that he was right up against one of the supporting pillars, and leaned against it.

He was going to go to sleep, damn him.

Erdi stared at the red thing on the altar, the thing that everyone else seemed to be focused upon. What exactly was that? Whatever-it-was revolted her somehow. She did not like it.

What is that? she asked, as silently as she could.

"I should say," said Sheogorath, a little too spritely. He was upset. "You're gettin' better at this. So. Would you look at this. Entrails. How singular. People after me own heart."

He paused. "I'm smitten. Really! Or--" He dropped his voice. "How many of 'em do you think are in here? You've got that big fellow." He lowered his voice still further. "I bet he could do some serious smiting. So what do you say? Shall we get on with the smiting?"

Erdi could only imagine the mayhem that Ahtar could wreak in this room with his axe.

I really don't think so, thought Erdi, nervously. She'd already felt her head move as the Daedric Prince scanned the room. She took a firmer hold on her own belt, resolving to keep her fingers away from her dagger.

"Fine. Have it your way!" And: "That's not very Champion-y."

Erdi didn't budge.

The madgod began to sulk, muttering.

Erdi ignored him.

Learning that it was a daedra heart up there was unpleasant enough.

Why were priests of Stendarr worshiping the slaughter of some thinking creature?

Disturbing.

"Dull's what it is," complained Sheogorath, after a few more excruciatingly quiet minutes ground on by.

One of the younger priestesses removed her hood and set it aside. She walked to the altar, stood before it, and waited for all of the priests to finish their adulations.

There was an invocation; Erdi recognized some parts of it from Jod chanting in Vaermina's tower. That part was all right, but it was a strangely toneless chant. At the time she'd thought it was Jod, his voice was sort of unfortunate... but maybe this was how it was supposed to be?

It felt strained and weighty, not uplifting. What kind of liturgy was this?

When it was done there was another lengthy moment of silence.

The young Breton lady began a sermon, the first few words of which were ordinary enough. 

But then: "Thus Stendarr looked upon the world of mortals, and he found it afflicted by Abominations. And he made it known unto his priests, resolutes, and templars, that these unnatural profanities are abhorrent in his sight, and are to be exterminated by the Righteous without halt or mercy."

"Oh! Hey--" broke in Sheogorath. "Don't that sound familiar? I seem to remember hearing some kind of liturgy, can't think where, sounded like-- Ah." He sighed. "Never mind. Ears're all wrong-- not nearly pointy enough. Carry on listening. Don't mind me."

Abhorrent, thought Erdi. Exterminated. Even the more rigorous of the Thalmor prayers-- Cyrelian used to say a few of them when he thought the rest of them weren't listening-- didn't use words quite like that. Maybe it was just that elves liked euphemisms. She wriggled a bit, trying to get more comfortable on the narrow bench.

This the kind of thing the Thalmor preach?

The silence in her head was resounding.

"For these Abominations are each and every the eternal enemies of the mortals of the Mundus, and shall not be suffered to abide among us," said the priestess.

Erdi nudged Ahtar in the ribs. He jerked awake.

"Hey," he said, pitching his voice so low only she could hear it. "I was payin' attention."

"And these Abominations are four in kind: The daedra, those unworldly horrors that are not of the Mundus, but come from Oblivion to inflict cruelty and death upon the mortals of Tamriel..."

A indignant sniff, at the back of Erdi's mind: "Well! I came for the weather," asserted Sheogorath. "And the wenches. And strawberries. But who-- I ask you! Who?!-- Who's going to credit that?" He huffed: "Soooo. Not alllll Daedra."

Erdi rolled her eyes. But... wasn't it a bit much for the priestess to extend such nefarious acts to every daedra? Weren't there daedra who were innocent nature spirits? Sprites and water horses and such?

Beside her, she heard the beginnings of a rumbling snore.

Annoyed, she jabbed Ahtar, hard. He twitched sharply and sat up, hand to his knife. Then he settled back into place, patting her upper back. He was listening, now.

"The manbeasts, those mortals who through traffic with the bestial Hircine do change their skins for those of animals, preying thence upon the innocent..." said the priestess.

Erdi saw Ahtar frown deeply, as well he might. He'd explained his views on werewolf-hunters on the way down here; how those bound to Hircine's curse were not, generally, those who sought it: 

"Don't think it's fair to say they've had to do with Hircine," Ahtar had said. "Who seeks out a curse like that? Be really fucking stupid, to choose becoming some kind of unthinking deadly monster, if'n you couldn't choose when you was gonna be that monster. Anyways. Most of 'em don't cause trouble. Werewolves like the wild-- they stay away from settlements. So you don't really hear too much about them runnin' amok."

"The risen corpses, those restless undead whose rotting bodies persist with loathsome and unnatural vigor, sowing fear and agony among the living."

Erdi could not find in herself any argument with preaching against draugr. 

Mentally, she nudged Sheogorath.

"Meh," the Daedric prince said. Erdi scowled. Was he going to go to sleep on her too?

She listened closely, and hoped she would not be encountering any of the foul creatures soon. Marcus had told her all about his encounters with draugr in the Nordic tombs that he and Alfgar-the-Dovahkiin had explored. Erdi was not looking forward to seeing draugr. She shuddered.

"The deathless vampyres, who feed horrifically upon honest citizens, regarding righteous mortals as mere cattle to sate their unholy hungers."

Erdi had never before heard a lecture about vampires; she listened closely.

Distinguishing vampires from normal folk; that would not be easy. Unless somehow the vampire were in its true form or poised to do its feeding. It would certainly be easy enough to accuse someone of being a vampire-- how would a person ever prove that they weren't?

She wondered whether Ahtar would know if he knew any vampires. It didn't seem to be the sort of thing a person who was a vampire might share in casual conversation. Anyways vampires seemed like they would be the opposite of were-creatures; they would be city folk. Wouldn't they?

Ahtar didn't appear to be taking umbrage at this particular part of the sermon.

"Know these Four Abominations, O ye righteous, and gather to slay them wherever they appear."

There was another agonizing moment of silence and then another brief tuneless chant. Erdi didn't see what the priestess did or did not do; but the other people in the hall seemed to know when things were over, since they had started to move around and chat quietly. A couple of them even went to the back to pour cups of mead.

Erdi dug her elbow into Ahtar's ribs again. He snorted a little and sat up all the way. 

"Mm. How was it?"

"Boring and lengthy," Erdi told him. "And terrifying. I think we need to be careful, here."

When it was over, Jod came back to them after helping himself to a bit of mead.

When Jod asked Harald how things had been going these days, Harald hesitated. He looked to see who was nearby. 

"Thinking of heading down to Chorrol," was all he would say. "Winter's getting harder every year."

Jod raised a brow. "Why not the Rift? Always looking for people at Stendarr's Beacon."

"Keep your voice down," hissed Harald. He was still looking over his shoulder. "And don't mention the Rift!"

"Why--" Jod sighed. "Oh, yeah. Forgot. Isran. Sorry."

The mention of that name had gone along with a visible eye-roll, and Erdi wondered what had been going on. She didn't get the sense that this Isran had been well-liked.

"Keeper Carcette will be with you in just a moment."

"Thanks, Bertram," said Jod.

"Oh, yes, that's a very famous sermon-- the Four Abominations by Archbishop Imbrex, from all the way back in the First Era," said Keeper Carcette. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"I've seen you before, too," said Erdi, too startled for good manners. Now that she could see Carcette more distinctly..."Only it was in Haafingar, and you were--" 

A vampire. With a whole flock of mesmerized followers, on foot in the main procession. Under the command of Sybille Stentor, who had been--

Erdi cleared her throat. 

"Er, somebody that looked kind of like you. It was in one of Vaermina's nightmares," she said. "One night of those and believe me, we were more than willing to storm that tower."

Jod hastened to introduce them.

"What brings you to the Vigilant?" asked Carcette, frowning.

"I have a friend," Erdi said, carefully. "I think you had already tried to come and see him? He is sometimes afflicted by something which might be Vaermina's influence. Is that something a Stendarr priest can deal with?"

"Perhaps," said Keeper Carcette. She was no longer smiling. She looked like a priestess of Kynareth come in to give terrible news. "Where is he now?"

"Wait," said Erdi. She had a terrible feeling about this. "I meant, can you heal him?"

"We cannot," said Carcette, grimly. "No one can. The best that we can hope for is to ensure that he will not become a danger to others. And that he is no longer suffering." 

"So what's your plan with regards to the rest of the city of Dawnstar, then?" demanded Erdi. "All of those people suffered Vaermina's affliction," she said. "Are you going to murder them too?"

Ahtar took hold of Erdi's shoulder, steadying her. Hush, he meant. So she shut up.

Keeper Carcette looked to Jod: "Where is he?"

"We don't know," said Jod. "Lost track of him a few weeks back. He got released from jail."

"When you find him, you know what to do," said Keeper Carcette.

Jod, to his credit, looked troubled.


	8. Erdi: Marching Orders (The Pale, Middas, 11th of Sun's Dusk 4e202)

Jod, sensing Erdi's distress, took the time to pull her aside as the others filed down to the refectory.

"You can relax," he said. "I'm not taking marching orders from some girl barely out of the novitiate. If I wanted to be bound to listen to fools and idiots, I'd still be in orders." He made a growling sort of noise. "Should've stuck up for Isran, I guess. Man's just as harebrained but at least he knows what's what."

"Isran?" said Ahtar. "Heard the name. Redguard?"

"Yeah, he's from some little place in Dragonstar. Not sure how he ended up all the way up here. Struck out on his own and is leading some little group of his own out East, preaching against vampires. Good organizer, good officer. Too bad he's a... a what do you call it." Jod's voice went disapproving: "Visionary." 

Unpleasant lunatic, is what Jod meant.

"Huh," said Ahtar.

"He contacted me after he went out there, but I wasn't interested. Being housecarl to a jarl's a good spot and I didn't want to give it up to go squat in some abandoned castle that's practically in Morrowind."

"So, what're we going to do?" asked Erdi. It was full dark out now and cold. She did not like this place. It was sort of lonely without Sheogorath's constant commentary, too. The Daedric Prince had gone sullen and silent.

"We should grab whatever's left for supper," said Jod. "We can sleep in the downstairs practice-hall, and take off in the morning. I'd kind of like to talk to a few people before we go."

The three of them found an unused seating area downstairs in the Hall and settled in with bread and cheese. Ahtar had taken one look at the food on offer and shaken his head. "Folks don't seem to want to make us too welcome," he said. "Rather eat our travel rations if that's all right."

Erdi had taken no more from these people than a cup of venison broth. She was using it to sop up the bread they'd brought along from Dawnstar.

Jod said, grimly. "Things have changed around here. Not for the better." He settled back into the chair. "All of the elders who used to run this place are gone. Some died, but most of them went back to Cyrodiil when the war came. So I guess this is what we've got, now. Place has really gone downhill." 

"Where'd you get the hat?" Erdi asked. And, to Ahtar: "Will you at least eat broth?" 

Ahtar declined. He did take the cheese she handed him.

Jod said: "Bertram gave it to me. He's one of the ones I want to talk to."

In the morning Bertram wasn't anywhere to be found-- he must have been on the guard roster-- so Jod wanted to wait for him. Cautiously, Erdi agreed.

It did mean sitting through another paltry breakfast and wretched sermon. At least this one was shorter.

"What the fuck's that about?" demanded Ahtar, when she told him she wanted to go back inside. "I thought you wanted to leave right away. Now you got some reason why you want to drag your heels, hang around here all day? We got places to be." 

"Who's in charge of this again?" demanded Erdi. "I told you. Let Jod get his friend and whoever else wants to leave. This place is--"

"This place is bullshit," said Ahtar. "Maybe I'm just being really fuckin' green but I can't believe Aedra priests act like that. Nightmares, signs and portents. Land's gone to ruin; dragons burning shit down and snappin' people up, easy as a wolf eats mice. If that ain't enough, nobody can decide what fuckin' side of the war they wanna be on this week-- not even long enough to get through harvest. Gonna be lucky if people get to eat this spring even if we got enough for seed corn." 

He threw up his hands and posed to imitate Keeper Carcette's benediction, and turned it into a supremely rude gesture. "I know! Let's go murder some poor cursed souls just so's we can jerk ourselves off thinkin' we're doing good. Fuck this place."

Erdi didn't disagree. This morning's sermon had been worse.

"Mind you--I ain't gonna say that you oughta be messing with the daedra. That's fucking well stupid. Dibella's pretty tits, you keep it up, you're gonna end up like our Marcus next."

Erdi got angry. "You shut up. I've prayed to the Aedra just like everyone else. I've made my offerings to Dibella, no one can say I haven't. So what's all that virtue getting us? The Aedra haven't done a thing-- What if the only gods who care about what's happening to us right now happen to BE daedra, huh? What if they're the only ones doing anything about this mess? What then?"

"Hey--" Ahtar was making efforts to calm her down. "I ain't saying I agree with these guys, it's just..."

"It's just what?" Erdi demanded. "You want to murder me too?"

"Been a day already, girl," Ahtar sighed. "Don't tempt me." He tugged at his cuirass to resettle it, hand automatically moving to check on his sword; his dagger. He glanced up at the sky-- that was a reflex they had both learned in Hjaalmarch. "You think Jod can catch up? I really wanna get going."

"Just a few more minutes!"

Erdi exhaled more slowly, calming herself. It hurt, that was it, that even Lady Dibella had been silent. She had gone to Dibella's shrine on the way down here, and heard nothing but silence and the emptiness of the wind stirring the dead trees. She had offered a honey treat, but it had all seemed rather pointless.

Ahtar was still fidgeting around.

"What's gotten into you?" Erdi demanded.

Ahtar didn't want to say. 

She insisted.

"I ahhh-- I might've put a daedra heart in your backpack," he confessed. "Grabbed it while you was arguing with the victualler about breakfast."

"What?!"

"Don't worry," said Ahtar. "I wrapped it up pretty good. Won't leak." He looked sheepish. "Heard you talking to Jod about it. And I thought about it for a bit, and I... it just ain't right." He stood with his head lowered. "Might've been a daedra, but that's a someone. Not a something." 

Erdi stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Why MY backpack?" she demanded, indignant. "Why not use your own backpack?"

"Cause I'm not the one's got a reputation for doing stupid impulsive shit," he said. "Figured if they caught us, I'd tell 'em you was just bein' ah-- you know. What you do."

Erdi stood there with her mouth open. She couldn't even--

She was too furious to speak. Ahtar kept getting defensive, but she didn't want to listen to him. Sheogorath found it amusing, which was even more irritating.

"I'm sorry!" Ahtar said again, agitated. "I couldn't just leave it there for them to continue to, to... ah, ah, gods...what is..." Ahtar paced about in a tight circle, visibly fighting to find the words and becoming more upset.

"Desecrate," supplied Lord Sheogorath, helpfully. "Pollute. Contamin--"

Erdi howled her great frustration against both of them. 

Ahtar winced: "Anyways," he said, contritely. "Looked like fuckin' necromancy to me. Like Forsworn shit." He coughed. "Ain't-- ah-- ain't gonna keep happening if'n I can stop it. Going to have a priest take care of it. A real priest, since Stendarr priests look like they've gone to shit. Somebody who'll bless and bury it proper."

"Burned, if you please," said Sheogorath, primly.

"Or, or... cremated," murmured Erdi, in a small voice.

"Yeah," Ahtar agreed. "Something less disgustin' than whatever that shit they was doin' back there. Priests of Stendarr? Makin' me sick." He spit. "Come on. Let's make tracks."

Jod came out of the priory just them.

He said: "I've got one more for us, if you all don't mind. This is Bertram. He's from one of the priories in High Rock. He's all right."

"I figured that we could at least take him down to Yorvik's steading, see if there was a place needed filling," added Jod. "Yorvik's got his hands full just being down so close to the border. Said he's about ready to put up signs directing folks to the battlefield just so they stay out of his fields."

"We can do that," said Erdi. "But we've got another stop first, if that's all right. We're on our way to Fort Dunstad to talk to some people there."

She could see Ahtar frowning at her and doing everything he could to say: "No." He wanted her to refuse.  
Couldn't she make her own decisions? There didn't seem to be anything wrong with Bertram and anyway Jod was willing to vouch for him.

"Weather willing," said Jod. "We can do that all today. It's not far."

"Are you another crazy person?" Erdi asked. Or, wanted to.

Instead she inquired about why it was that Bertram wanted to leave the Hall of the Vigilant.

"Politics," was all that Bertram would say, his nostrils pinched. 

By which Erdi concluded that he also thought that Keeper Carcette was a lunatic, or at least, someone that he didn't want to follow. Erdi scratched at her chin and her neck, where the clasp of her hood sometimes rubbed. The expression on Bertram's face didn't match the lines there; he seemed like he was generally a good-humored man. Not lately, though.

"What would you say if I told you that Keeper Carcette's a vampire?" she asked the Breton, thoughtfully.

Behind her, Ahtar made a choking noise, and tried to fight it down. But then Jod started chuckling. It was contagious. Once the four of them fell to laughing, they couldn't stop. 

"Fail to see what's so funny," grumped Sheogorath.

Erdi tried to speak, and just couldn't. She tried, and subsided back into gasping breaths.

"Yeah, those sermons of hers suck all the blood outa the room in no time," Jod sniggered. "Blood, air, fun..." 

"Time," suggested Ahtar. He made a few rude suggestions about what better uses Carcette could find for her particular talent. 

Sheogorath perked up at this. Erdi was sadly certain that she could hear the scritching of a quill.

"I hear what you mean," said Betram, eventually, gasping. "Ow." And then: "It would sure explain a lot."

Jod was shaking his head. "Get used to it," was his only advice to Bertram. He rubbed his face clean, and looked to the Breton: "So, you coming along?"

"I got a voice in this?" questioned Ahtar, at once. 

Despite their shared levity, he was still wary.

"No," said Erdi, firmly. "Let's go," she said to Bertram. "We've got places to be."

"Ah, shit," said Ahtar. 

"Hm?" said Jod.

"Being as you wanna talk to these guys on Skald's behalf, don't you think you ought to wear your armor?"

Erdi swore under her breath. Ahtar seemed to think that more waiting around was fine-- so long as it was his idea.

Eventually the four of them headed southward.

"Is that the giant camp Skald's always complaining about?" Erdi asked Jod, curious.

"We're gonna stay away from that," interrupted Ahtar, instantly. He took a firm grip on Erdi's arm. "You want to take on giants, you come back with siege equipment. Possibly an oliphant. Lots of hagspit, if you can get it. You know. Ballistas. Or battlemages."

"It's the only way to be sure," agreed Jod.

Bertram made a noise that might have been laughter.

The men traded boastful stories about what they'd seen giants do with their great clubs. Erdi was certain that they were exaggerating. Still, the four of them skirted far around the giant's camp.

Ahtar kept a close eye on Erdi. She resented it. What did he think she was going to do, anyways?

They continued along. 

Her feet hurt.

When they finally came upon Fort Dunstad, Ahtar stopped. 

"Going to have a look around," he told them, and set his bag down. Erdi watched him lope up the hillside and disappear behind the tree line. Jod gave an order and Bertram faded back further down the road to keep watch.

She and Jod waited closer to the road.

"What's going on?" she wanted to know.

"Checking to see if they've got patrols or pickets," explained Jod. "Gods know what we're dealing with." He shook his head over the appearance of the back of the fortress. There was a wall that was half-wrecked, where somebody had scavenged stone.

"This place was still manned when I left," he commented. "By the Legion, not by Skald's Pale Guard. Legion would have left a couple years back, and we just left the place alone since Hall of the Vigilant is right up the way in case of trouble." 

Jod explained that Fort Dunstad had been one of the Pale's old border-posts, but that the Pale had expanded greatly since then, to include Heljarchen, for one. So this particular fortification hadn't been needed any longer. Thane Yorvik's territory happened to be an odd boot-shaped piece that ran from Whiterun Hold to the mountains and thence all the way eastward almost to Windhelm.

Truthfully it seemed like Heljarchen ought more properly to be a thanedom of Winterhold or Eastmarch, thought Erdi. Or Whiterun, even. Perhaps she'd best not bring it up.

They walked around the structure to the lane leading from its front gate to the road.

"In better repair on this side," said Jod, more approvingly.

They could hear activity from inside the small keep. Someone was hammering metal, and they could hear the creaking of a windlass pumping the bellows.

"Huh," said Jod, sniffing. "That's odd. Don't think that's steel."

Erdi came up a bit closer.

It was only workmen, not guards. There did not seem to be any guards. Two men and a woman, working a small forge. They saw Erdi, but weren't curious enough to leave their work.

Erdi returned to the road.

"Nothing," said Ahtar, coming back. "Looks like they've got quite a few observation posts up in the trees along the north, though. And I found what might be a warming spot by a cave." He put his bag on and shifted under its weight. "We should get onwards to Heljarchen," he said. "Looks like there ain't been trouble here in awhile, but I still don't like this place. I got a feeling about it."

"That what we're doing, then?" demanded Erdi.

"Yeah," said Ahtar, trying to sound reasonable about it.

"I think you're forgetting who's in charge," snapped Erdi. 

"Me?" said Sheogorath, bemused.

Shut up, you-- thought Erdi, furious. "We're not on a pleasure trip," she snapped. "We're here to get some business done for Korir, and to get paid for it. Or we're just eating up travel rations for nothing." 

She scowled at Ahtar.

"If you don't wanna listen to me, then what'm I doing here?" Ahtar demanded. "Could ask you the same question. Could be earning my own way back in Winterhold."

"Just stop," said Erdi.

"I want to get to Heljarchen," said Ahtar.

"I want to get to Haafingar," piped up Sheogorath.

"I know!" said Erdi, completely exasperated.

"I think we should pick up a few of Yorvik's guys before we go into this place. So that these Silver Hand folks know they'll get some trouble if we go missing," Ahtar argued.

Jod cleared his throat. "We've got Bertram," he suggested, conciliatory. "He could keep watch and relay word up to Skald through the Vigil if there's trouble."

"Yeah," said Ahtar. "Like that's going to do any fuckin' good. For us. Other than maybe letting that raving bitch Carcette know me'n Erdi ain't gonna be around anymore to go look out for my nephew. Thanks for siccing the Vigil on him, by the way."

"Hey!" said Jod. "That ain't nice. How was I to know that she'd take that hard a line? I would've--"

"Yeah? Who's the one dragged him into that tower to get all done up by Vaermina in the first place? Want to say something about that?" 

Ahtar'd gotten quieter, not louder. Erdi felt his attitude shift, that long-simmering anger threatening to erupt. 

Jod did too, because he immediately stepped forward.

Before they could square up, Erdi pushed her way between them.

"Back off!" she directed Jod.

"You don't know," she told Ahtar. "You weren't there. All right? I was. Marcus volunteered. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't hear of it. It had to happen. Jod was just there to make sure Marcus didn't try to run out on his wergeld."

"That so, Stendarr priest?" demanded Ahtar.

Jod sighed. "No," he said. "Not how it went. Not quite."

Erdi rounded on him: "You're not helping!"

Jod raised his hands. "He's going to hear it one way or another," he pointed out. To Ahtar: "Going to listen? Or do you just want to have it out right now?"

Ahtar jerked his head: Talk.

"Alright," said Jod. "That damn kid killed one of my shift-commanders right out on the boardwalk in front of the Windy Hearth, during the busiest part of the evening. Lots of witnesses. Unprovoked."

"It really was," said Erdi, quietly. "That man didn't even really see Marcus. He was coming in with a lady friend, and Marcus just got right up and bumped into him, you know? And kind of got into a pushing match with him, right out the front door. And everyone came out, and-- " she shrugged.

"Yeah," said Ahtar, roughly. "He's pretty good with that knife."

"Long story short," said Jod. "Pale Guard proved to be full of pirates. But in the meantime we got this kid in the jail and it's murder any way you look at it. But Thane Yorvik--"

"It was me," said Erdi. "My fault. I talked Skald into it. I said I wouldn't help Erandur go deal with the Vaermina nightmares unless Marcus was allowed to go with me. I don't know anything about ruins!" She kept talking, louder. "Jod was just his escort."

Having failing to wave her silent, Jod simply began to talk over her.

"Shut up!" said Erdi.

"No. I got to," said Jod, looking at Ahtar. "I'm not going to lie. Skald told me to keep an eye on things in that dungeon. He said what happened was up to me."

"It was Erandur who asked Marcus if he was willing to do it," interrupted Erdi. "Or me. But it wasn't Jod."

"You mind?" said Jod. "Anyways. We were all talking about it. The kid asks me, 'What's in it for me?' and I thought--"

"That's our Marcus," agreed Ahtar. He was listening. To Jod, at least. Only to Jod. Erdi was thoroughly exasperated with him.

"And I thought to myself, you know what? We could go back to town and ask around. Be a waste of time. Nobody's gonna want to bend over for the Prince of Nightmare. So-- I promised the kid I'd get him a pardon. For the murder."

Ahtar snorted. "Yeah?"

"On legitimate authority," said Jod, offended. "It's my call. Skald left it up to me. He leaves a lot of discretion to me." He scowled. "Not every single thing. Murder conviction wouldn't have just been a hanging. You know how Skald operates?"

"I know," said Ahtar. "Sometimes Skald'd send them to Solitude and pay Haafingar for me to do what was needful up at Castle Dour. He had some creative ideas. Never good."

"I'm sorry!" said Erdi, to Ahtar. "It was my fault too. I asked Jod. After we got back and Marcus-- he just wasn't even able to talk to me or anything--" 

"Thought there was something that the Vigil could do that would help," Jod said, soberly. "We were trying everything-- me and that Mara priest and Skald's wizard. I didn't think the Keeper would say to just put him down. Though there were a couple weeks it looked like that would have been a mercy."

"Did he really get better?" Ahtar demanded.

"Ahhh-- not as much as I made it sound," admitted Jod. "Once Yorvik was all done and the testimony was done--There was a wergeld. Less than you'd think. I talked to some folks. We got it taken care of, amongst ourselves." He shifted his feet. "Shouldn't have. Day it was paid off, Skald says, 'Get him out of my jail and off my lands."

"Mind telling me what the fuck you did with him?" Ahtar asked, soft-voiced. Almost gently.

"Passage paid to Solitude," Jod said. "He didn't want to leave. We had him carried out and tossed up onto the deck. Paid a crewman to make sure he got up into the city itself and wasn't just left... you know. Dockside."

Ahtar stood very still. He swallowed. "The one place-- the one place I can't fuckin' go," he said to Erdi, despairingly, the lines of his face graven deep with anguish. 

Elder Sister, she thought. Why now? Was he crying?

"I can't--" Ahtar stumbled over the words. "I can't ever do anything for him, Erdi. Whatever I do--" for Marcus, Ahtar meant. "Makes no fucking difference in the end." 

Erdi could see that Betram was coming back, jogging along the road.

She drew Ahtar aside, to give him a moment.

"Let's not tell everyone about your bounty," she counseled. "We'll get this job done. Then I can go up to Solitude for you and see what's going on. Marcus has a lot of friends in the city, all over the place. Could be he's doing just fine. I'll make sure." She sighed. "If he's still all-- I don't know-- disordered, I'll just bring him back to us at Winterhold."

"Alright," said Ahtar. "Just so you know-- you think Jod is trustworthy. Maybe so. But you don't know this new guy."

"Yes," said Erdi, patiently. "I recognize that. That's why we are going the few miles onward to Heljarchen and not just running all the way back to Dawnstar." She fixed her hood and re-hooked its clasp. "I can hop the next cart north from Heljarchen," she said. "You stay and do-- well, maybe that other stuff we had planned." 

She wasn't going to bring up Azura in front of two Stendarr priests, trustworthy or not. 

She paused. "One other thing. I wasn't joking earlier-- even though it was funny. Keeper Carcette really is a vampire."

"The what?" Ahtar looked completely baffled at the non sequiteur. 

"I'm not sure if you can rely on-- um-- my source to tell the truth but he seemed to think it pretty damned funny," said Erdi. "That's what set me off." 

She listened intently, for a few more moments. "Also, there's something the vampires want, up in the mountains near here. That's why they took Carcette. Figure she'll be in the right place at the right time." She frowned at Ahtar. "He wasn't happy about it. Says I ought to go back to Haafingar."

"This Bertram a vampire?"

Erdi relayed: "Hahaha. Good one. No."

"Well, anyways," said Erdi. "I thought it might be useful for you to know."

Ahtar nodded.

"You still think we should get to Heljarchen first?" asked Erdi. "I guess we could. It'll take longer."

"Let's just get this thing done at Dunstead," said Ahtar, wearily. He shook his head. "Maybe you should do the talking."

"Oh! We were wondering why you folks were standing around out there on the road," said the lady with the rusty-colored locs. "Jera said it looked like a pretty serious conversation, so she didn't want to interrupt. Who were you looking for, again?"

"Jarl Korir sent us down here from Winterhold," said Erdi. "He wanted to open discussions about the request that you all put in to secure the leasehold at Fort Fellhammer." She indicated Jod. "Skald's housecarl's come along with us in regards to this fortress right here. Skald wanted some more information about what your plans would be."

Lord Sheogorath was gazing around the place, making noises to himself and tutting. 

With an effort, Erdi re-focused.

"Welcome to Dunstad Steading," the other woman was saying. "We called it after the old fort. I'm Leneh." She smiled. 

"You might want to ask her what she is." The Daedric prince's voice was uncharacteristically terse. 

So Erdi did.

"Me? Mostly a Kreath Nord, but my family's from Elinhir." She smiled broadly, not taking offense, and touched her coarsely-kinked copper-colored hair. "Everyone always asks." 

"And that's a non-answer if ever I heard one," said Sheogorath, emphatically. And, with contempt: "Puppy-killer."

I am not listening to you right now, thought Erdi, at him. Why couldn't Daedric Princes ever pick a quiet moment?

Leneh motioned all of them further into the room. "All of that sounds like business Krev'll have to take care of. She's working on something right now, but she won't be long."

They were shown to a little waiting area, somewhat bare but well-tended.

After a few minutes Erdi got up to look around, as it didn't appear that anyone was going to stop her.

She went down into the kitchen level.

On the way down here, Erdi and Ahtar'd had a long debate about whether the Silver Hand was just another bandit crew or whether it was one of those quasi-legitimate religious orders. He'd talked for a long time about how to spot a rogue outfit.

So she assessed them: There were armed men here; but quite a number of armed women, too. The women were dressed just about the same as the men, in clothing and half-armor-- and they weren't delegated to all the servants' work, either. There were a few men working on chores and a couple of women practicing at the target dummies. No one present walked about with his or her head low, like a servant. There were several races present-- a couple of Dunmer; and an Argonian. The Argonian was cheerfully bossing others about the kitchen, and no one seemed to mind. The place felt lively and busy.

She glanced at Ahtar, but all he did was shrug a shoulder. He hadn't quite made up his mind, yet.

"Sorry it's taking so long," said Leneh. "We're just working on getting dinner ready, so if you'll excuse us." She looked at Erdi. "Krev wants to know, Is there anything you have a religious prohibition about, or--"

"Ahtar doesn't eat meat," said Erdi. "Not at all, not even bacon." She tried a grin. "Not sure bacon counts as meat, really, but he's pretty serious about it."

"We have a few people here who don't," said Leneh. "Does he like potato-leek soup?"

"Pretty sure at this point he'll eat almost anything," said Erdi. "It's been a couple days since he's had a full meal. I'm not doing a good job looking after him."

Leneh's eyelids crinkled.

"What is the name of the lady we're waiting for, again?" asked Erdi.

"Krev the Skinner." Leneh winked. "She'll tell you the story, if you catch her in the right mood."

The dining area was down a few steps where the room opened up into an amphitheater of sorts. There was a serving-table set up up front, and a high seat that loomed over all... but that did not look like it saw much use. A few sweetrolls sat amidst crumbs. It looked like someone had picked up the platters from breakfast and stuck them up top so people could pick off the remains.

The Argonian set a heavy pot of soup down on the edge of the table, with a ladle. He went back for a stack of bowls. Meals were serve-it-yourself, evidently.

The Silver Hand kitchen area wasn't lavish, but it was well-kept. It was obvious to Erdi's expert eye that the prep cooking was done elsewhere and that things were brought up here only prior to the daily meals. There were a few staples put up along the walls and on the shelves, dried meats and jars of hardtack and so on. There wasn't much going on in the kitchen area at the moment. Occasionally the Argonian would wander by to baste the roasting meat. Erdi saw him get one of the smoked fish down from its rack and begin to slice it thinly; obviously for Ahtar. Bless them. 

The floor in here was clean, very unusual for a former garrison fort and for a kitchen with an exposed spit. Looked like the flags were swept up regularly.

A woman came up the stairs and paused.

A couple of people chatting near the straw practice dummies saw her and moved out of her way. Had it not been for that simple sign of respect, Erdi wouldn't have seen any difference between her and her comrades. 

From her bearing, she was a priestess.

"I am Krev," she named herself, simply. "I speak for the Silver Hand. Leneh said you have business with us?"

"I have a letter for you from Jarl Korir," Erdi said. "Also he said to say that if you wanted to send someone to confer in person, the mountain passes are closed for the winter, but the weather's been nice enough that it's still possible to go along the coastal route from Dawnstar."

"Ah," said Krev. She reviewed the letter. "Let me think on it," she said. "There are certainly a number of details that will have to be worked out."

She refolded it, and gazed upwards for a few moments.

"Is he always so effusive? Your jarl, I mean."

"He's very, um, enthusiastic," said Erdi. "And I think he's happy to get settlers of almost any sort. Winterhold's had quite an exodus over the past fifty years."

"What sort of man is he?" Krev wanted to know.

That is a good question, thought Erdi.

"Young," she said. "Definitely motivated to get things done. He um--" She paused. "He still goes out to his cattle-byre every morning to work. I don't know why that makes me like him more, but it does."

"Do you know him well?" asked Krev.

"Not so much just yet," said Erdi. "Ahtar does. They were friends awhile back."

The Argonian approached to tell them that dinner was served. Krev lined up to take her bowl with everyone else.

"You got an Arkay priest here?" asked Ahtar. "And you mind if, ah, we borrow your smelter?... What?" he said, to Erdi. "If'n a forge cremation's good enough for one of the Companions..."

"What's this about the Companions?" demanded Krev, sharply. "Do you have some affiliation with them?"

Erdi saw it: heads were turning, and those were not friendly expressions she was seeing.

"No," said Ahtar, visibly puzzled at Krev's change in attitude. "I just was up at the Skyforge once and saw one of their funerals. Had to be, oh, fifteen years back, last time I was in Whiterun the city." He shrugged. "The jarl's whole court went down that morning to watch. I was there on some kind of diplomatic thing. Wasn't much else to do, so I tagged along."

"Be wary of them," cautioned Krev. "We've had some trouble."

"Ahhh. Yeah," said Ahtar. "I get that. When I came in to the Haafingar Guard, they warned us. The Companions might be famous, but they ain't no Fighters Guild. Don't assume they'll be law-abiding." He smirked, and covered it by rubbing his face: "When I was jail captain we did have a guy, claimed to be one of them. We thought it was bullshit. Owed some pretty wergeld when the Steward was done with him, can tell you that. No one ever did post his bond or come to get him. He spent a lot of time pickin' up trash and cleaning gutters." 

He laughed, and so did Krev. 

The conversations around them that had cut off started up again as the other members of the Silver Hand relaxed.

"So you're that fellow," said Krev. "The executioner." She folded her arms. "You did all the inquiry work for Haafingar. The hold's torturer."

Erdi winced, but Ahtar admitted it: 

"I was," he said, and made a joke of it. "These days, sellsword work," he swiftly added.

After a few seconds. "So-- what about that forge? Can we use it?" He explained about the daedra heart and the VIgilants who would no doubt be seeking it.

"I am sworn to Kynareth and can perform the Arkay rites at need," Krev said, still amused. "But I'm not certain that Hugo wants us messing about with his forge. We have a furnace in the lower levels, for the hypocaust and baths and so on. Will that suit you? I can give you a tour down there." 

She paused. "Maybe you could look over the rest of our setup, if you will? Perhaps a little advice?"

Erdi noted the very slight emphasis on the word 'you'. So did Ahtar.

"Stay up here," Ahtar told Erdi. He pinned Jod with a look that said: Don't leave her.

"Why?!" Erdi demanded.

"No," said Ahtar, with finality.

Erdi bit her lip, but she handed off her backpack, just the same.

"It's not very exciting," said Krev the Skinner, apologetically. "A small training room, an examination room; our armory and so on. A little place where I do my apothecary work."

"It won't be long," Krev promised.

"It's fine," said Ahtar. "I'm sure she'll wanna know more about Korir and so on, anyways." He re-adjusted his cloak.

"Would you like to see the practice area, instead?" Krev offered, and beckoned one of the archers over.

Moira wanted to know if Erdi wanted to see the rest of the place as well as the practice area, and they walked through some of the other sitting areas, and looked into some of the bedrooms that belonged to the residents. There weren't many windows, as the fortress was sunk into the mountain. There were plenty of light-shafts, though.

The baths were simple, just a washing-area for people and laundry, and a soaking-tub. No sauna and no cold-pool. But it would do. Their privy was about as nice as the one at the Winking Skeever, and much cleaner. 

Jod, obedient to Ahtar's command, followed along behind them.

"You're back," said Erdi, with surprise. "That didn't take long at all."

"Yeah," said Ahtar. He grimaced. "Say. Don't want to be rude, but I told Yorvik we'd be down there in time for that family thing of his, and I think we're already running late."

"The Thane of Heljarchen," explained Erdi to Krev, a bit nervously. 

Ahtar's expression suggested that he wasn't in the mood for discussion. Normally she would argue with him but-- she felt cold inside. Something was wrong.

"Ah, yes," said Krev, who did not appear to have noticed. She went to the cabinet and retrieved a letter. "If you're heading that way, could you please deliver this for me? We wanted to speak with him further about hunting rights."

"We will," said Erdi. "Thank you again for luncheon."

They set out, replete. The sun was shining and the wind had calmed down. It was at their backs, anyways.

Erdi found herself in a pretty good mood, but Ahtar didn't seem want to talk. Neither did the two priests.

As they went along Pale Pass Road, Erdi felt a growing pressure in her mind. 

"Going the wrong way," sulked Sheogorath. Go northwest, he meant. Back towards Haafingar.

Stop it, said Erdi, irritated.


	9. Erdi: A Better Read (Heljarchen Hall, Turdas, 12th of Sun's Dusk 4e202)

“No. You need to tell me why this is so important now. Before all this, you hadn’t seen Thane Yorvik in what? Ten years or more?” Erdi exhaled annoyance. "This is a waste of our time. I need to get back to Solitude to find out what happened to Marcus. Anything could be happening to him!"

"Annnnnd you've got some people to be! Places to see!" said Lord Sheogorath, brightly. He’d promised to continue pestering Erdi until she did what he wanted in Solitude. Erdi turned her attention aside, but Ahtar was already shaking her off:

"I got reasons. That alright?" 

"Sweet Lady! I am so tired of this from you!" Erdi persisted, but Ahtar refused to say any more. So she stopped walking.

Jod halted, and tapped Bertram's shoulder to get his attention. Erdi and Jod and Bertram watched Ahtar continue on down the slope. When Ahtar realized that he was alone, he flung his hands skyward in great frustration, and turned about, his footsteps crunching along the frozen snow as he made his way up.

Erdi met his angry gaze and held it. "I need to know why you want to go to Heljarchen."

Ahtar exhaled through his nose and inhaled hugely, as if to summon patience. His fingers tapped his Orcish sword-hilt as he spoke: "Told you already-- I want to get a better read on Ulfric Stormcloak. Yorvik-- ah, Calvus Quintus that was-- was one of my father's tribunes, back when. The General had a lot of young officers, mostly Nords, at his table. Yorvik was the poor bastard who got to ride herd on us brats. So he knows Ulfric pretty well. Whatever Yorvik’s got to say about the man, I'd like to know. Before I go up to Windhelm." 

All that sounded perfectly reasonable, except: "Weren't you there, too?" She folded her arms. "At the same table with Ulfric?"

"Ahh... I was young and stupid and the only thing I was payin' attention to was my dick. I had better things to do than look over shoulders at a war map to be assessing somebody's --ah-- operational capabilities. And it's been a long time. Markarth was a shitshow, but who knows, Ulfric coulda learned something from all that. I need to know what I’m getting into." Ahtar shrugged. "Playing war games and cleaning up after banditry's one thing. War's another." 

Jod grunted to underscore Ahtar's last statement. He started walking again and the others followed, down the broad slope to the rich farmland valleys of Heljarchen. 

After a mile or so, Erdi took Ahtar's hand, and tugged at it to slow him down."Good enough story to fool Stendarr priests. But I’m not buying it.”

Ahtar sighed. "Let it go, Erdi. Old history. Ain't nothing you want to get mixed up in." 

"So," said Erdi. "We're going into the house of your good friend Thane Yorvik, and he gives you a good report on Ulfric Stormcloak?" She took a few quick steps to keep pace with his longer stride. "So you go up to Windhelm, to ask for clemency; to pledge to the cause. Then what? Ulfric’s going to be so happy to see you? Can’t imagine he’s forgotten about you and ‘Stavan staring him down across the General’s dinner table. You remember telling me?”

"Look," Ahtar said, wearily. "That wasn’t nothing, Ulfric’ll have forgot about that. It's just--” His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

Erdi waited, but Ahtar’s gaze was for the downward path, not for her.

“Staying up at Winterhold’s not so bad. But I’m gonna have to do something different. Can’t stay like this. You think I want to spend the next ten years chopping wood an’ hauling water?”

"Don't know why you'd want to stop now,” snapped Erdi.

Ahtar stopped dead.

She persisted, merciless. “Because that’s all you ever did in Solitude, wasn’t it? Keep your head down and follow orders. Never question anything, especially if it came from Aldis.” 

"Seems a bit of a come-down, what?" agreed the Daedric Prince, pleasantly. “All the way down to what? Head Jailor?” He chuckled. “Not that you did any better for yourself, my dear. King’s lady to scrubbing floors? But whooooo’s keeping score?” Sheogorath broke into an owl-cry laugh. “Whoo, Who? And what was that you said to me? Oh, ho, that’s right. At least you were still on your knees!”

A red flash of rage almost blinded Erdi, and Ahtar flinched. With great effort Erdi stilled her features, willing calm. 

“What did you just say?" she asked Ahtar.

"I had my reasons,” Ahtar said again.

"Sure you did. I had to talk you into coming out here, remember?" Erdi jerked her chin: "This is where you want to go, so let's get to it."

"Almost there," observed Ahtar, with relief, as they came up over the last rise and saw the buildings. Jod and Bertram were no longer visible or audible in the distance, having elected to stay as far away from Ahtar and Erdi as possible. Following their little spat, they had walked in silence broken only by the crackle of their footsteps breaking the ice-glaze on the snow. The afternoon sun had softened it against the stone of the path, but this close to sunset the temperature was dropping.

"Pretty little town,” Erdi commented.

"Not so nice as the houses in Haafingar," chimed in Sheogorath. "Let's go admire those!"

Hush, Erdi thought.

"Yorvik's a good thane. Better than most. And a good man. Still is, I expect." I hope, Ahtar didn’t say. He grimaced, attempting a smile. She touched his hand in silent apology. 

They went on.

"Look! Is that a carriage?” said the madgod. “And oh! They've got a whole stable over there just chock-full of bang-up blood-and bone--" Sheogorath hesitated. "You do know how to drive, yes? Well. Not that it matters, my girl. You'll figure it out as you go! So-- on our way then? Off to Solitude!"

No, Lord Sheogorath, Erdi thought, wearily. We’re exhausted. We're going to spend the night.

"Huh," said Ahtar as they came into the walled yard of the thane's great house.  
"Different from what you remember?" Erdi touched the rough stonework of the wall, meticulously kept clear of ivy.

"Doors are new. Banners are different." Ahtar looked around. "Yorvik's got a patrol up there that ain't advertising itself. Bowmen. Hold tight and wait for someone to come get us."

After a few minutes the door opened and a grave young man came out and greeted them civilly, in the name of the house. He looked surprised to see Ahtar, but lit up almost at once. Hero-worship.

"You must be one of the younger kids." Ahtar frowned in concentration. "Elgar? No, that ain't right. Horst?"

Horst grinned confirmation. "You wouldn't remember me. But I was at the stables helping-- you had one of those great big black-and-white Chorrol geldings and you were about ten feet tall in that stripe-crested helmet."

"Falco," said Ahtar, remembering. "That poor brave son of a bitch. Not that many horses're up to my weight. Your father around?"

Horst Yorvikssen showed them into an antechamber where they could set down their bags, rack their weapons and put up helms and gloves. "Refresh yourselves, as you care to," said Horst, gesturing at the kegs-- one of mead and the other of beer; with several brown bottles of cider set alongside. Jod and Betram were sitting and waiting.

"Don't bother with that bottle of wine. I think it's older than I am, but Pa says we've got to have it. For the damned Imperials." Horst shook his head. "I notice none of them ever try to drink it! Let me go see where he's at." 

When Horst opened the door, in wafted the sounds and smells of a great number of people sitting down to dinner. Erdi took the time to hang up coat and hood, putting her gauntlets on the already-crowded shelf. She looked over the weapon rack and put her iron dagger on the table, where it would seem less puny. Erdi's boots were clean enough-- the snow had been mostly frozen and dry, these past few miles. She combed fingers through her hair, certain that she looked a disaster, and decided to take a small cup of mead to settle her nerves. 

The mead had been infused with cherries. It was good.

"How long've you been knowing the thane?" Jod asked Ahtar, sounding suspicious. Protective, even.

"Thirty years, give or take. If it's any of your business, priest."

"You know, they had some cushions for the seats on that horse cart out there," put in Sheogorath, helpfully. "And it's still light. Moons're close to full. Wouldn't take long for you to get back on the road."

Erdi growled through her teeth.

Ahtar coughed. "Sorry."

"It's good," returned Jod, equally curt.

"Jens! Olga--" Thane Yorvik was followed out by a couple of errant small-holders clutching scrolls. "You're not jumping the list. Now I told you-- give all that to the steward. It'll be reviewed in turn, just like everyone else. No favors in this court. Get back to your dinner, now, before the dog gets it."

"Thane!" a voice called from the hall. "Ready for the mead now."

Yorvik himself would have to be presiding from the high seat, as the drinks were carried in with ceremony, to be followed by the process of his housecarls and the formal boasting.

"Sorry about all this." Yorvik looked just a bit ruffled. "Quarter-day is always busy. And once we're done with the petitions, the militia officers need to meet." He looked Ahtar and down, came to some sort of decision, and nodded briskly: "You have the hospitality of my house."

Ahtar exhaled, audibly.

Thane Yorvik moved to the washbasin and they all came forward, so that he could at least touch their hands with the cloth as token of the ritual handwashing that normally would have followed.

"Val will see that you are set up with a meal and lodgings for tonight," Yorvik said. "Nothing fancy, I'm afraid, but it'll serve. I'll have time to meet with you all in the morning." When he got to Ahtar he paused, his amiable face suddenly gone expressionless. "My rule about fraternization, Captain?" His voice was soft, the gentlest of reminders, but--

Erdi watched Ahtar's lips snake back into an expression that he swiftly converted to a mere grimace. "Sir," he acknowledged, as close to humble as Erdi had ever seen him. She continued to watch Ahtar out of the corner of her eye, a bit uneasy, but he did nothing.  
Yorvik folded the damp towel and hung it up, carefully aligning its corners, just so. He appeared to be completely oblivious to the mood in the room-- but then he went to the rack to get the orcish sword, formally proffering it hilt-first over his arm to Ahtar. "Bear your weapons in all honor." 

Ahtar's posture eased. Out of the corner of her eye, Erdi saw Jod relax.

Thane Yorvik repeated this ceremony with Erdi's iron dagger, just as solemnly if it had been a blade of great worth, his serious expression keeping the little ritual from becoming ludicrous. The two priests were served likewise. Jod got to keep his short-axe and Bertram his mace.

"Messages from Skald, I take it?" Yorvik said.

Silently, Jod handed over the packet. Thane Yorvik opened it and began to leaf through it.

"My Thane!" said the girl who came in. "They're starting--"

Yorvik gave them a wave in lieu of apology and followed her out.

"Who, um, is Val?"

"Wife," Ahtar answered her. "She's from Bruma. I can't wait to find out what she thinks about all this Stormcloakery." His lips twitched. "She didn't think much of them back when they were just Ulfric's auxiliaries. So I doubt she loves 'em more, now." Even lower: "They have sons in the Legion, still. Try not to mention it."

For quarter-day, Valeria Anya Carvain had chosen to wear a red dress one defiant shade removed from the Imperial Legion's oxblood banners-- so there was her opinion made known. She showed them to a small room adjoining the kitchen, where a serving-maid was already laying out plates of food.

"Petrona will serve you if you have any further needs," said Val. "You'll be in the second bunkhouse for tonight, but at least you'll get it to yourselves. Tomorrow will be a little less busy."

Erdi was too deep in slumber to sit up immediately.

Jod was already standing. A groggy Bertram was fumbling around looking for his own weapon in the dim. Jod sighed and dropped his axe back behind the bed and sank back down onto the hides, rubbing his face.

"Go back to sleep," he directed Bertram. "He's just having a nightmare."

Nightmare. Erdi shuddered. Vaermina.

Ahtar rolled over. His speech was too quick and low-pitched to be comprehensible.

For a few seconds Ahtar went silent-- and then his bedframe creaked dangerously as he pressed against it with his feet. He whimpered in desperate anguish.

"All right. I'll deal with it." Jod sounded muzzy.

"No!" Erdi sat up all at once. "Don't try to touch him. He doesn't take it well."

She turned. Even in the dim light, what she could see of Ahtar's skin was sheened with wet. He had flung his arm up to cover his face.

“Hey,” Erdi said, close to Ahtar's ear, awkwardly trying to get into her boots and socks as she did. She stayed as close to him as possible, squatted down far enough for the hem of her shirt to brush the floor. If he struck out, the worst that could happen would be that his arm would give her a shove. The pillow under Ahtar’s head was already soaked with perspiration. Ahtar's eyes were squinched shut and the muscles jumped in his tense cheek and jaw.

“Hey, you’re dreaming, it’s all right," Erdi soothed, still in that low easy voice. "We’re all good-- we made it down to Heljarchen safe; they were having a pretty good feast. Roast pig and plenty of side dishes. You ate all of the carrots and the potatoes-and-cabbage, and Jod was teasing you when you only ate the vegetables and said-- 'Hey, when are you going to eat food?' You said 'The fuck? I am eating food.' And then Jod says, 'Ha. That's what food eats.' And Bertram didn't know what we were talking about, and--” She continued to talk, soothingly.

Behind her, she could hear Jod getting up and getting dressed. 

"Sorry," she said to Jod, most of her attention still on Ahtar, who was struggling to wake.

Jod yawned. "Almost time for prayers."

Ahtar lunged upwards. He gulped in air for a few breaths, chest heaving and eyes rolling white. Just as suddenly he focused on Erdi, gripping her arm hard enough to pinch it numb. "Did they burn him?"

“What? Burn who?"

Ahtar released her and bolted. The door to the hall swung open behind him.

"I'll check," Erdi said to Jod and Bertram, and followed Ahtar out.

Ahtar didn't answer when she called his name.

This is your fault, you know, Erdi said to Sheogorath, peevish.

Sheogorath had his mouth full: "Mmm? Hm-mm. Not one of mine." He swallowed and said. "Be a waste of my time, really, dealing with that one again." He took another bite and said, somewhat muffled: "Tough nut to crack, anyone would say. But. I did my poor best." And: "D'you mind? I'm eating breakfast here."

The Daedric Prince fell quiet.

The yard outside seemed to be too dark and quiet. A guardswoman nearby on post who turned to look, sheltering one eye against the light emanating from the doorway. Erdi waved back-- it's alright, no trouble-- and shut the door. Not outside.

She opened the door to the privy, but Ahtar was not in there, either.

She heard a sound--

Ahtar was sitting huddled in the shadows nearby, head bowed to his knees, his face covered by his hands. Erdi had managed to walk right past him.

“Are you sick?” she asked, concerned.

Ahtar groaned, low, which Erdi understood to be: Maybe. Not yet.

"Would it be better if I went away?" she asked.

Ahtar didn't respond.

Erdi was freezing half to death in the cold breeze coming from the hall. She rubbed her arms and knees.

"Jod's probably starting to get worried. I'm going back to the bunkroom to tell him you're alright. Unless you need me to stay?"

Ahtar didn't move.

"I'll be right back," she said, and hurried off.

“Hm?” said Jod, who was still adjusting his belts. 

“By the privy,” Erdi told him. “Might be all that good food yesterday didn’t settle well with him. Pretty big meals after not eating much for a while.” She sighed. "Not that he needs an excuse for bad dreams."

Jod frowned and sniffed at the atmosphere in the room. “Something very wrong about that dream. I hope it isn’t--" Jod grimaced, and sketched a quick ward-sign in the air. "Vaermina. Finding a way to bring her influence back." Jod didn’t have any real magicka of his own. It would be up to Stendarr to dispel any malign influences that might be present. 

Vaermina’s evil artifact was gone from Mundus-- Erdi had witnessed Erandur summoning Mara’s grace to destroy it. But if the Prince of Nightmares were now capable of touching dreams even outside of Dawnstar... Had Marcus’ sacrifice been all for nothing? 

Jod's worried face showed he was thinking these same thoughts.

In nothing more than her smalls and a thin linen shirt, Erdi was shivering. Jod got Erdi's blanket for her. He shook it out to drape it around Erdi’s shoulders like a cloak, and used his own silver broach to fasten it securely. 

“Cook should be up,” Jod said, thoughtfully. “Let me go see what I can do. Maybe go sit with him until I get back?” 

Erdi checked up and down the hall, and glanced up the vacant stairs. She did not sense any malign presence, but without Marcus along, she had no chance of discerning any, did she?

Lord Sheogorath remained irritatingly silent.

Ahtar was clutching his knees, the right side of his face pressed against the rough cloth, concealing his scars. For a brief flash Erdi saw what he'd looked like before he'd been so marred by the Forsworn.

"Hey," she said to Ahtar, softly. "It will be all right. It'll be morning soon and--"  
His head jerked from side to side, violently. "The deeds men do ought to be stamped in the flesh for all to see," Ahtar said, "As a warning that some belong in no civilized land. I deserve this visage."

A chill rolled up Erdi's spine. That was Ahtar's old voice; his court voice, which she had not heard in so long. His eyes had gone leaden dull, opaque:

"Jala's gone too, isn't she? I sent her to her death."

Erdi sat down beside him, tucking the blanket around her legs as best she could. "Cyr told us. He got Jala safely out of the city onto her ship."

"Marcus said we were lied to. He said everything we thought we knew about Cyr is a lie. Those Illusion spells--" Ahtar coughed and swallowed. "I just don't know."

"Jala's on her way," said Erdi, firmly. "I'm sure of it. You know how Marcus gets. He's just not rational. Cyrelian is not a liar. He got it done."  
"Even if he did, what if her ship got taken? We've heard nothing. Ahtar's voice was still strained and anxious. "She's gone."

"Jala's going all the way to Anvil! I doubt she put into shore along the way just to send a letter. And it's only been a few weeks." Erdi frowned at him, not liking how grey Ahtar's skin had become. He looked awful.

"I should've taken her out of the city myself," he said.

"With all those Stormcloaks hunting you down, on account of Roggvir? You and Jala wouldn't have made it past the Well District, let alone the harbor gate. Stop worrying. Jala will make it through just fine."

Ahtar's hands continued to work in his shirt, twisting the cloth. "This is what I bring to them. Death."

"Stop it! Jala isn't dead. Cyr isn't either." She hoped.

"So-- what if I do tell Yorvik? Or I don't? Another death? Kyne! I pray--" Ahtar's breath caught, and then gusted out. "I pray that I didn't make a mistake. That it isn't too late. Because Jala's going to take that book all the way to the Imperial City, and once the Mede gets his hands on it--"

"What are you even talking about?!"

Ahtar fell silent for a long while.

Erdi gave up on not-squirming. She gained her feet after two attempts, clumsy as a winter foal on cold-stiffened legs. "I'm not going far. Only to the privy."

By the time she came back, Ahtar looked less gray. He had uncoiled enough to sit upright. 

"Just me bein' foolish, Erdi," Ahtar said, to her concern. "Nothin' you need to worry about. Just the things that haunt me at night--" He tried to smile at her, but his face constricted back to that taut rictus. "Anyways, it's nothing you would know."

"Try me," said Erdi. "Maybe I do."

Ahtar said, "You remember that stupid fucking dream we was all having, back in Dawnstar?"

"Vaermina's nightmare," said Erdi. "Showing us Solitude as a city of the dead."  
"An army of the dead," Ahtar corrected her. "That part's important. A full Legion, banners and all--"

'Was Sybille Stentor there on a dapple-gray horse? Like a general in armor?" Erdi bit her tongue to keep from interrupting him again.

"I ah-- I tell you all this already?" Even through his distress, Ahtar seemed amused. "Stentor was. And she was pissed. Snapping out orders to her bannerman. Cavalry running up on infantry; soldiers all here and there. Not keeping their dressing.” He chuckled, tolerantly: “Not like our Stentor at all, she ain't got no badness to her. Maybe a bit snippy. And behind Stentor, her tribunes--" He shook his head, violently.

"Around the army of the dead, the ground turned black and lifeless," Erdi remembered. "And their commander--"

"Yeah, whatever everybody else had become, whoever Stentor was general for-- that person was something much, much worse," said Ahtar. "It gets better. I wasn't standin' back watching. I was right up there. Part of that army. I stood with her. One of her tribunes; 'Stavan was the other, he was right there beside me. I had the banner, even though I didn't-- ah. I didn't have a head."

"This is a really stupid question," said Erdi. "But was the banner you carried one of those old-style Septim banners?"

Ahtar blinked slowly, considering. "Yeah. It was. Real old, Third Era old. I remember looking up-- how the fuck did I look up, no head?-- seeing it and thinking that. Talos symbol and everything."

"And the Legion standard-- it went under the banner of the wolf?"

"Well, that ain't nothing new, for a Legion out of Haafingar," said Ahtar, dismissively. "What was new, is that whoever this lady-in-charge was, she had some hairbrained new idea, because they way she had the cohorts arrayed was all fucked up, and--"

"Hey," Erdi interrupted. "Do you keep having this same dream?"

"Eh?" Ahtar seemed puzzled. "No."

"When did you first have that dream about Stentor and Solitude and the army of the dead?"

"In Dawnstar like we all did," Ahtar said. 

"That was Vaermina's nightmare. Did you have it again tonight?"

"Oh. No," Ahtar told her, a little puzzled. "Just in Dawnstar, back when." He shifted about a little and rolled his shoulders to ease his back. "Hell of a weird dream. Odd. Guess I can't get it out of my head." He frowned. "It was like I was remembering that dream, tonight, in this one."

“When we defeated Vaermina, I thought all of that would be over.”

“Nah, it’s good.” Ahtar tried to smile at her again; it was less hideous. “Was bad at the time but it was too strange to be ah--" he yawned. "You know. Threatening."

"So what was tonight's dream?"

“Oh, it was bad. Thought that came to me just after--" He leaned back into the corner of the stonework and shifted his legs. "I don’t even know if they burned 'Stavan or they buried him. Don’t know if there was a funeral, or a field observance… or if they just tossed all the bodies back in and sealed off that damned cave. I-- I was gone by then. I couldn't stay. I had to go and be sure--” 

“It wasn’t fire,” she assured Ahtar, knowing how he felt about fire. “They took 'Stavan back to where he was born," she said. "Solitude."

Ahtar nodded.

"High King Istlod had Styrr'd do the Arkay rites over again, in case they hadn’t been done right in the field. They had 'Stavan wrapped as suits a king's heir and put in the royal crypt, beside his father.” 

Erdi paused, because Ahtar was still looking worried.

“I’ve been down in the royal crypt, for the observances. With Torygg, when his mother died. There was some talk about 'Stavan-- and he's there, you know? I saw him, right beside his father. And they still remember him, in the recitations. High Queen Mette. High King Istvan. High Queen Aelfrieda Crown-of-Stars. Prince-Heir Estavan. High King Istlod. High Queen Serafine." Erdi coughed. "I didn't go down there for High King Torygg's. It wasn't fitting, they said. I was only a ladysmaid by then."

Ahtar nodded.

"What was so important that you went away so quickly, right after they took 'Stavan out of that terrible cave?" she asked, curious. She'd always wondered. Ahtar had told her the story many times, but that he'd never explained.

“Now I wish it had been fire." Ahtar's voice was hoarse. He hadn't answered her. “That they had burned him completely to ash. Because that way I’d know. No necromancer could mess with him."

"Necromancers?" demanded Erdi. She was cold again; was this Vaermina again. her nasty tendrils drifting into normal sleep; into Ahtar's mind. "Was that your dream tonight?"

Ahtar's breath huffed out in a great exhalation, as he leaned his head back against the stone wall. 

"Tonight's dream, that was bad. Don't do bad things, Erdi," he said, softly. "Deeds, for good and ill. They stick to you." He swallowed. "You're gonna be out there in the world. The things that're done to you, that ain't nothing to your dreams. Not compared to what you've done. Fuck. My nose is running." 

Ahtar snorted deeply to clear his sinuses and wiped his face with his shirt-sleeve. "I ah- I saw 'Stavan's face again tonight," he glanced up at her and then away, almost shy. "I finally saw him whole." Ahtar gave a small, unhappy laugh. "I couldn't, before. All I could ever see in my mind is what he looked like after the Forsworn were done with him. But now I can see him, in that crested helmet of his, looking right back at me. I guess maybe that's worth all the rest of Potema's nightmare.”

"Vaermina." Erdi glanced back down the long hallway, suddenly apprehensive again. Somewhere far off, Lord Sheogorath was chuckling. 

Ahtar wasn't fully paying attention. He wiped his face again. 

"Dragged you all the way down here just so's I could talk to Yorvik," he said, contrite. "Arguing in my head the whole time, whether I should or shouldn't. Just can't square it, in my head. And now this dream." He was looking at the stone floor. "Because I was a monster. Not like some creature Stendarr hates or some poor bastard without a head. Just me on my own, doin' the things I used to do. Is it gonna be the right thing, talking to Yorvik, do you think?" He looked anxious again. "I wouldn't care, if it was just me, but it ain't my life I'm risking here."

Erdi took a breath, and considered. "Yorvik could have gone free, but he spoke up, for Marcus' sake. And we had all just watched another man die by Lord Sheogorath's hand-- just for interrupting him. That could have gone badly for Yorvik." 

Lord Sheogorath scoffed. He sounded half-awake, like he'd gone back for a morning nap.

"Yorvik didn't have to help us," said Erdi. "He didn't know us. And he really doesn't like Marcus, not at all, so that wasn't it."

"Took measure of the man," said Sheogorath. "Nothing wanting." He yawned. "And he tells a good yarn. Might be a tale-teller, but he's not a tell-tale, if you take me."

"Lord Sheogorath thinks Yorvik is trustworthy and that he won't go running straight to Ulfric with whatever-it-is you've got," said Erdi. "If that helps." She rubbed at her cold arms. "Must be something, if you haven't told me, these past five years."

Ahtar nodded. "Oh. Yeah. It's the one thing I couldn't," he said, and leaned forward.

But just then they could see light coming from down the hallway. Jod approached, carefully minding a candlestick lantern and a steaming cup.

“Peppermint, fennel seed, and redmint.” Jod handed the cup to a dubious Ahtar. “Ought to help.” 

“If you don’t drink it, I will,” said Erdi. “It smells delicious."

Ahtar took a sip, so as not to scorn hospitality, and then drank deeper, evidently finding it good. Looking surprised, he emitted a loud belch.

“Helps with wind. Indigestion, that kind of thing.” Jod looked around himself. “Are we going to sit around out here until sunup, or what? Yorvik’s already outside working.”

“Yeah, give me a few minutes,” Ahtar drank again. “You gonna go do your prayers?” He snorted again, to clear his nose. “I got one, if you don’t mind. Maybe two or three.” 

Erdi went back to the room to let him talk to Jod alone.

Erdi got dressed slowly, her fingers almost numb.

It took her a little while to find her leather cuirass, which had fallen down beside a wardrobe. 

When Jod came in, he moved aside to the corner of the room and knelt quietly, to begin said prayers. By the time that Erdi had settled her iron dagger at her waist and re-tied her scarf, Jod was nearly done. He rose to his feet just as she finished.

“Here,” Erdi said, handing Jod back his brooch. “Thanks. Should we--” she said, indicating the other Stendarr priest, who was still curled on his side, oblivious.

Jod made a rude gesture.

They left Bertram to his own raspy snores and went out through the rest of the guest-quarters to Yorvik’s home proper. The sky was getting much lighter now.

Erdi went to talk to Horst out in the yard, making her own arrangements for travel to Haafingar. She went to the stable-master and they found a couple of horses that might suit her, spending some time making certain the saddlery and so on would fit her, and taking a turn around the yard or so to ensure she could handle the beasts.

"When were you planning on getting going?" she asked Jod.

"Not today," Jod said. "Thane Yorvik and I need to meet about some of Skald's business, and then it's an early night for me, because I'd like to leave before dawn. It's an easier route downhill to Whiterun, though. You'll have a rougher road."

Erdi rubbed at her neck. "Ahtar's still asleep," she said. "I didn't want to wake him." She paused. "I'm kind of worried about that dream he had. I haven't seen him like that in a long time. Do we think maybe Vaermina--"

Jod waved her silent and she stopped. She knew better than to name a Daedric Prince.

"Good question," said Jod, grimly. "He did tell me some of it; it didn't sound like it, but what kind of dream has a hold like that? It just doesn't seem natural." He paused. "Well. Maybe I overspoke. Losing your husband like that, well, I guess the rest of your life would be like a bad dream, yeah?" He cleared his throat. "Ah. He didn't confide in me that bit; I heard it from Skald."

"You know about that? A bit before your time, wasn't it?"

"Hard not to," said Jod. "Skald's still bitching about it, at least in private. He had a high opinion of Prince Estavan. Except for when it came to his personal life; said he was irresponsible for being such a stubborn damn fool about his marriage; because if he'd been properly--" 

Jod flicked a brow in contempt. Damned old Legion men, he meant.

Erdi sniffed.

"If Estavan had been properly married, he would have been crowned, and safely sitting in Haafingar rather than some warcamp down in the Reach."

"Sour grapes make the best wine," Erdi said. "Ygritte had her chance, and lost out. From what Ahtar says, it wasn't ever going to happen. Skald's still holding that grudge, all right. You saw how he was. Up at court for two days and he wouldn't even look in Ahtar's direction."

"Foolishness," Jod agreed. "Skald was annoyed by something else that didn't make any sense to me." He nodded in the direction of the bunkroom where Ahtar had gone back to sleep. "Said he had it all in his hands and let it slip."

"A wasted chance," said Erdi. "That's all it was. Ahtar didn't take any real action after Prince Estavan died. He vanished for a few weeks and when he came back he insisted he was going back out into the Reach. For revenge."

"A Redguard," said Jod, skeptically.

"His family's Imperial," Erdi countered. "You'd have to ask Yorvik about right-by-marriage, it's a tricky thing. I really don't know. But if you think about it, Istlod's right to the High Kingdom was extremely questionable in the first place. He was only ever supposed to be 'Stavan's regent."

Jod took another drink, as if he needed it. "So your crabby friend out there has more right to the High Kingdom of Skyrim than, say, Jarl Elisif herself."

"Not anymore," said Erdi. "Torygg was crowned. I told you-- it gets tricky. Once someone else inherits-- particularly a blood relation-- any spousal claim from a previous kingship would get superseded." She frowned. "I think. This is all really lawthane business. I'm not sure what happens to a re-married spouse when there's no other reasonable claimant." 

"I have to wonder why your friend didn't try," said Jod. "Other than he'd last five minutes, maybe."

"I asked, once," said Erdi. "Ahtar said it was Titus' fault. And I asked, 'Titus Mede?' He said no. Titus Decianus." Her nose wrinkled. "That didn't make any sense, but Ahtar didn't want to answer any more questions, so I stopped. Anyways, he said that's why-- well. Jala said it was all over and done with, because it was a promise that he was forced to make when they got married-- that he'd be forever barred from bringing his claim to the jarlmoot. She got really upset with me, for asking." Erdi winced. "She was crying."

"Huh," said Jod.

"So it was all over, but then Ulfric killed Torygg, and kicked off this whole mess," she ended. "So now we're stuck with this choice between a thinly veiled military dictatorship run out of the Nibenay, and…” Erdi grimaced with distaste. “Ulfric Stormcloak.”

"Haha," said Jod. "Funny." He drank. "I thought the Jarl of Haafingar would be petitioning to be made High Queen in her own right. Assuming we lose."

"Elisif? She's too intimidated to petition for a better chair-cushion," said Erdi, tartly. 

Jod smirked.

"She isn't personally a coward," Erdi conceded. "She understands how tenuous her right is. If Tullius wins, her expectation is that she'll be made High Queen-- but she understands that it's just as likely she'll be superseded. Or worse." 

Jod said: "Who would--"

Erdi cleared her throat: "Well, they say that anyone can become High King by--"

"No shit," said Jod. "You think Tullius'll have himself declared High King?" He laughed. "It don't seem all that likely to me. I mean, I've lived in Chorrol; you should hear 'em talk about us provincials. 'Better a smallholder in Cyrodiil than High King of the backbeyond.' He'll go back home."

"Hm," said Erdi. " I don't know. Ahtar told me: 'Legates from good family don't get sent to the ass-end of nowhere to manage bullshit little wars that don't bring new lands or booty.' And I think..." Erdi paused. "If Tullius wins this war in a way that pleases his superiors, all he'll get is the Emperor's thanks, and another thankless assignment. And if he displeases them--"

"The best Tullius could hope for would to be relieved of command," Jod agreed, thoughtful. "So you think he'll grab that prize if he can get it." He rubbed his face, grimacing. "Now that's a thought: Tullius as High King. Don't think that'd end well."

Erdi said: "Tullius might not care about holding it for long. The Emperor has no heir. No other province has had a unified kingdom in generations. If he wins, he'll have a whole crew of veterans looking for something better to do, and a bunch of former Stormcloaks needing to earn back their own. Skyrim might be just a stepping stone. I doubt Elisif would live much past that." 

Jod winced. "You see something to make you think that?"

"Tullius' people are quite anxious to ensure that Elisif stays unmarried," said Erdi. "She doesn't leave her rooms. Except for court. And even there she is not to leave her throne. Someone is watching her at all times."

"Well, fuck," said Jod. "Explains a lot about what just happened with the Haafingar Guard. I kind of wondered."

"Haafingar's thanes aren't happy about Tullius, either," said Erdi. "Thane Bryling and Thane Erikur in particular. Bryling-- well, that's obvious. Erikur's animosity is plain, but half his business is with the elves, and the elves appear to be in support of the current regime, so..."

"Thanks," said Jod, still looking thoughtful. "All of that's real useful. So-- you said you're heading out soon?"

"Tomorrow morning. Sooner if I can. Where exactly are you going?" Erdi asked. 

"I've got some kin south of here in Whiterun Hold," said Jod. "I'll head down to stop with them for a little bit, then catch the carriage back up to Dawnstar. Probably be back there within a couple of weeks unless the weather's bad."

"You're not going to go back by the Hall of the Vigilant?"

Jod snorted. "No. I don't think so. Keeper Carcette didn't like it too much when I got Bertram to leave. She knows he's not the only one going to be moving on soon."

"I wondered what was bothering you, about all that," said Erdi. "Enough to try to get people to leave, I mean."

"Keeper Carcette's the worst sort of fool." Jod took a deep draught of ale. "Nobody asked my opinion, but if I were running the Hall of the Vigilant, I'd spend less time worrying about sending my priests out to track down the Daedra-afflicted and other abominations...and get some scholars to work on finding out why suddenly we've got so damned many. Things happen for a reason. Shouldn't we try to find out what reason? Otherwise we'll just keep up this fight until there isn't a single Stendarr priest left." He pointed at Erdi with the hand that held his cup: "We didn't have these troubles five years ago. Or even two. Now they're breaking out all over. Dragons. Draugr infestations. Vampire attacks. Daedric Princes interfering all over Mundus and causing people to suffer. Those hellish nightmares."

Daedric Princes interfering, said Erdi silently, prodding at Sheogorath repeatedly, until he responded.

"Only because it takes forever to get anybody's attention," said the aggrieved Daedra, who sounded bleary. "Mortals, I tell you! Give them five portents before breakfast and do they take any heed? No. Lay it all out for them as obvious as it could be? Ignored! They blame it on the cheese! Or on that Black-Briar mead. And... oh, just by the bye--" Lord Sheogorath added, irritably. "We're late. Better get on the road, unless you want you-know-who to have a nice head start."

Erdi said, cautiously: "Is it possible that Lord Sheogorath and Vaermina could be working towards the same end here?"

Sheogorath barked a rude laugh: "Finally! Thought I was going to have to resort to pantomime. Can we plllllleeeease get underway?"

"Hm?" said Jod, once Erdi explained. "I don't get it."

"Warning us, maybe?" she hazarded. "About something else that's about to become even more dangerous."

"Anything's possible," said Jod, returning to his cup. "But if what we've been seeing is only a portent, I'm not sure I want to see what it's warning us about."

"I'm trying to get Lord Sheogorath to answer that question but all he's doing right now is grumbling at me," Erdi said, after a moment. "Sorry."

"Your little minds could never comprehend." The mad god had gone from amused to irritated. "But! If you would just put your trust in me, and get yourself a horse--"

"Yorvik wanted to see you," said Bertram, coming back into the room.

Jod started to get up.

"Just the young lady. Thane said he's going to come speak with you later."

"Let's go aside," suggested Thane Yorvik.

"I was wanting to hear a bit more of your thoughts," began Yorvik. "Skald's housecarl says you have quite a theory, now. About what's going on over at the Hall of the Vigilant?"

"I'm sorry sir," Erdi murmured, looking down to adjust her scarf. "I shouldn't have made light of the head priestess there. Just a joke that got out of hand." She ignored Sheogorath's meaningful cough, and went on: "It has serious troubles due to poor management, I think. Bertram could tell you more. They've sent all the young people back to Chorrol and the place looked three-quarters vacant. There's no provisions for the needy-- in Stendarr's own hall!-- and their hospitality was just terrible." 

"We've had quite a few more travelers stopping by than expected." Yorvik looked thoughtful.

"They had us listen to a couple of their sermons-- the Keeper seemed to persist in wanting the priests to go out in the world to eliminate the, um. Unclean. And the Daedrically tainted. That seemed odd when the priests didn't even seem to have enough people to run their own chapter house."

"They have lost quite a few priests over the past year or so," Yorvik acknowledged. "But that's a matter between Keeper Carcette and her own superiors."

"Jod tried to get help for Marcus, but Keeper Carcette told us that Marcus would be better off dead rather than Daedrically afflicted by Vaermina's influence. What if the Stendarr priests start hunting Marcus down? We don't even know for sure if it's a Daedric influence-- he's always been a little odd. Is there anything that you can do to stop her?"

"Not the first nor the last time we've run into trouble with that lot confusing piety with superstitious nonsense." said Yorvik. "But, I wouldn't worry too much, about your Marcus. Anyone who can make a mockery out of Skald's jail's likely to keep ahead of a handful of incompetent priests."

"Is it possible to, um-- for you to write a letter? To the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol?"

"I can do that for him, at least," agreed Yorvik, lips twitching. He rubbed his face to hide his amusement. "So what did you think of the Silver Hand?"

"My eyes tell me one thing," Erdi said. "But..."

Yorvik motioned for her to go on. 

"I'm afraid I don't have that much experience yet," she confided. "But if I had to say yes or no, I'd say the Silver Hand isn't a bandit troop. They kept a cleanly camp, and treated each other as friendly equals. I liked them." She hesitated. "Except-- they say they're settlers, and they're not."

"Oh now? Got a letter here, says that's what they're about, wanting to build a new town around the fortress and so on."

"Settlers build," Erdi said. "They make plans for the future. I didn't see the Silver Hand making anything but weapons. Hmf. And dinner. But all those young women-- and not one child amongst them, in the room or on the way. " She grew more serious. "Ahtar saw something there that was enough to make him get the rest of us out of there, that very minute." 

Yorvik nodded. "We've had some disturbing reports. I'm thinking Korir's being a bit optimistic about these people." He scratched at his bald head, and mused: "I find I don't have much time or patience for visionaries, these days."

Sheogorath broke into a full-throated guffaw.

Yorvik glanced back at Erdi, sharply.

Erdi had covered her mouth, too late to confine the snort. "I'm sorry. But you're standing right under the--" She gestured upwards towards the blue Stormcloak banners that held pride-of-place in every room. "But you follow Ulfric Stormcloak. And no one who's given oath to that man has ever given me a satisfactory answer as to why. He sounds just as much of a lunatic as Keeper Carcette."

Yorvik did no more than raise a brow at her rudeness. "I follow the Stormcloaks' cause." He crossed the room to the oak shelf, and opened the latches of a weapons display-case. "Ulfric is my general, yes; and I won't deny he has his flaws, but the the dream of a free and independent Kingdom of Skyrim will outlast any one man's generalship. Or any one man's lifetime." He lifted the glass lid of the case with care. "It is Ulfric's banner now, but if he does not succeed, soon enough it will be another's." 

Yorvik chuckled. "Ulfric does have both eyes and guts, if you'll forgive the memory. And I doubt even Ulfric's sworn enemies would deny he has the heart." His gaze was sharp, bearing on Erdi's, as if he knew there was another presence.

Sheogorath snickered.

No one's said anything yet about brains, thought Erdi, a bit annoyed. Sheogorath began to entertain himself by adding to Yorvik's list of Ulfric's body parts; though none of it seemed pertinent. 

Yorvik took out the shortsword and began to look it over. "It was not Ulfric Stormcloak who set brother against brother, father against son." When Yorvik drew the blade to examine it, he made a noise of approval. "That would be the Legion's doing, and the Empire's, thirty years gone." He clicked the blade back into its scabbard with emphasis, and set it down.

"Ahtar has told me a little," said Erdi. "But he didn't seem to understand some of it himself."

"Before his time. The Empire didn't really have a coherent plan for standing down its armies---the Legion hadn't prepared itself for the contingency of victory. We expected to continue on as an insurgency." He laughed, ruefully. "All good Nords die heroes. And I don't think anyone could have predicted the outcome of Red Ring. Even General Decianus anticipated defeat."

"But you won," said Erdi.

Another painful laugh escaped. "May the gods never again grant us such a victory. And then its terms." Yorvik's pale-blue eyes burned, where his soft words had not. 

Erdi shivered.

"So," Yorvik said. "This is how the elves do their filthy work, setting brother against brother whilst they watch and wait. Forbidding us the very god we marched under. You can guess what happened next, within each Legion."

"A.. a little." Erdi pulled at her cuff, to straighten it. "Legate Rikke says it was awful."

"General Jonna was told to take her people back up the Pale Pass to Skyrim, and she was happy to do it, before the disorder in her ranks could grow worse. The jarls and the High King were more than ready to put their hands out to take the Dominion's payment. And that great army was dispersed and stood down-- before any of Jonna's commanders had time to think it through. High King Istvan thought that the elves' gold was certainty enough to seal that bargain; that the Dominion was serious that the war was done." His voice steeled further. "But what do the elves call it, amongst themselves?"

Erdi said: "The First Great War, sir. But there hasn't been another since? I didn't think that the Dominion was all that ready for another invasion, because of-- Oh." 

Yorvik was nodding. "We fight the Second Great War here and now. Jarl against jarl. Fathers against sons. Why should the elves waste their own strength? Let the human rabble blunt its teeth on each other." He sighed. "Make no mistake about it; we were done. There was no heart left in us to fight, and the Emperor knew it. So he chose. Rather than go on with war, we would go to table. But the Dominion's feast of conciliation bore a poison taint. The Empire supped; and the Empire died."

Erdi could see it: the blue banners of the Stormcloak rebels, hanging up over the mementos of a lifetime spent in service to the Legion.

Funeral relics, said Sheogorath, with great satisfaction.

Yorvik let out his breath. "Most left. Some few of us stayed until we could no longer bear the rot." He shook his head. 

"You were with the 8th, Ahtar said?" Erdi asked. "I thought they had disbanded."

"That was my home Legion. 8th Legion, 2nd Castra. It was indeed disbanded, because they died to a man, covering the Emperor's escape." His face had gone pensive, regretful. "But I wasn't there. Even before I was promoted up to Tribune, I was being floated all over; wherever there were Nords, I was sent to keep them under control. So. Some of them were my men. All that's left of the Seventeenth Legion, and some of the Seventh and the Ninth. And their sons and daughter and neighbors and friends. A few came over from the Fifteenth." 

Yorvik turned the sheathed sword about in his hands, looking at his knuckles, knobbed and scarred. 

"We're old," he said, bluntly. "This is the last of us, the old Legion, facing down the new. We would have started ten years ago, but for the Reach; and for the High King who should have been. Another decade will be too late. So. We are left with the one who will carry the banner. Men will follow Ulfric and die for him, at least. He has that gift."

Were those tears, glinting? Erdi couldn't quite tell.

"Ulfric's men love him, at least, even if he costs his officers grey hairs," Yorvik said.

"Ahtar says Ulfric's quite...um! Charismatic," said Erdi, dubious. 

"Oh, that's not what the big fellow said," Sheogorath countered. "He used quite a few more words than that. Some of them were-- Say! D'you think he'd tell us again? And let me take notes?" 

"Ulfric is sincere," agreed Yorvik. "There is that. What he says, he means. There's no dissembling." He shrugged. "A well-thought of trait for a warrior. A good Nord hero, one for the songs." He looked at Erdi. "It makes him a terrible general. And an even worse jarl." Another shrug. "So. We are Nords. We make do with what we have. Could be worse. What you've got is...." his face adjusted itself, carefully, back to neutrality. "Jarl Elisif. A young lady who wears the clothes well. Ahtar tells me that you're on your way back to Haafingar."

"I am," Erdi echoed Yorvik's distaste. She found her chin lifting, again. "I have no further obligations to the Blue Place. I will not be returning there."

"Are you... quite certain of that?" came a sprightly voice. "Because... I'm not. And I was just sitting here thinking to myself, here it is Middas already, and half the day wasted, and someone is NOT on the road." Lord Sheogorath paused, and then said, with no humor at all: "I'm not used to repeating myself."

"I hear you!" 

Yorvik blinked at her outburst.

"I mean, I understand!" Quickly Erdi added: "It's useless to keep faith with someone who does not even consider your presence worthy of acknowledgement. I even waited. No courier, nothing." She broke off, fiddling with her scarf. "I just gave up," she said, in a quieter voice. "All of the heart just went out of me. I no longer cared."

"Ooh," said Sheogorath. "Is it story time?!"

Hush, thought Erdi.

But Yorvik had taken the gladius up; he was holding it in his hands: "It wasn't any one single thing, you understand?" He laughed, unhappily. "I was sitting there one night, in Bruma as it happened, and I was going through the release certificates-- the secretary handles those, but I needed to countersign and of course the condolences-- and what did you know, I found another one where those damned elves took one of my lads away on suspicion of--"

His face tightened, and then resumed its usual gentle expression.

"Getting back to it--I have no idea on Nirn how long I sat. An hour? Three? And then I signed it, and wrote a note to his poor family, and put it in the box. I woke my clerk and told him I was ill and putting in for leave time and I came home and thought about it and spoke to my wife and we just-- quit. Letter of resignation, and everything. I asked where to send the weapons and insignia but I never even got the courtesy of a real response. Just another damned form signed by a clerk. Nobody took notice."

Erdi nodded along in sympathy.

Not a good story, Sheogorath sulked. You tell one.

"Elisif gave me a task and I did as I bade her, and I told no one. I warned her that it would come to no good end, and I was right." 

"I was never quite certain how all that came to pass," said Yorvik.

"Elisif was scared and she didn't want her city to burn. She said she'd be dead before she'd surrender to Ulfric Stormcloak-- her city, much less her person-- and she was begging Falk to tell her what to do, and Falk was no help. So--" Erdi took a breath. "Jarl Elisif knew Istvir was out there. General Istvir'd had word sent up to parly. And, well--" she shrugged. "Ulfric's army hadn't arrived yet."

"Ah. Elisif didn't think that Istvir Istvanssen and Ulfric were necessarily on the same side."

"Not a bad guess on her part," Erdi said. "If she could split Ulfric's best general from him, she would have won, sir."

Reallllly? drawled Sheogorath. I think you're giving that girl too much credit. Whose idea was that, again?

Thane Yorvik's face had gone still. He was thinking.

"But--" said Erdi, firmly. "Elisif didn't know how she could do it-- she didn't think any of her own people or his could be trusted to carry the message. So she called me in. I told her to give me the key to the Pelagius Wing and that I would do what I could, but no promises. I had no idea how I was going to even get out of the city-- it was locked down--"

She looked at her hands. "You know the rest-- Cyr was telling the truth about us stealing things from the Thalmor, we certainly didn't have their help-- and we ended up in front of Istvir." 

She swallowed. "Jarl Elisif-- did not believe me-- about what I'd said I'd seen in the Pelagius Wing, but she believed it carried that it carried a doom: no invader could pass through. Only servants of rightful kings; and those who in themselves carried the right to rule. And she knew Istvir's heritage: High King Istvan's second-eldest son, even if he were only Torygg's bastard half-uncle. Someone who had the blood-right. So she thought that Istvir would do." 

Yorvik said: "And you thought: he would not."

"I saw what sort of man he was," Erdi maintained.

"But you still gave Istvir that chance," he observed, the schoolmaster pointing out an obvious error. "You gave him the key. The Pelagius Wing might have let him through."

"Um. That was all after our negotiation. So I was hoping that it wouldn't. Elisf had directed me to escort Istvir through the Pelagius Wing," said Erdi. "But once I saw what he did to Cyr, kicking him and spitting on him while he was down... I thought-- no. Let the guardian of the Pelagius Wing determine whether to let Istvir pass."

"But noooooo," Sheogorath added. "Someone was too impatient for that." He chuckled. "Good gods, the little maid had a reason for the killing after all. And here I thought it was just me settin' a good example--"

I don't tell you my thoughts, Erdi thought at him, resentfully. For good reason.

"And then you then decided Istvir's fate and beat his skull in with that staff," said Yorvik.

Erdi gazed right back at him. "The man had no honor." 

Yorvik did not disagree. General Istvir Istvanssen seemed to have been a particular thorn in his flesh. 

"I'm just sorry that Istvir dragged you and Thaena into that terrible place." Erdi shifted her weight, uncomfortably. "Um. If you would not say anything to Ahtar about any of this, that would be best." 

Yovik made an interrogative noise.

"Ahtar is still angry with me," she said. "He thinks I betrayed Elisif. And at this point-- there's no sense telling him the truth; he'll think I'm just making things up after the fact." She looked at her hands, and added, in a low voice: "You probably think so, too."

Yorvik said, thoughtfully, "Oh, I don't know about that, missy."

"Hm?" 

"General Istvir's actions over that past week were nothing short of odd. One moment, he's with us on Ulfric's left flank helping to pin down Morthal. Ulfric didn't want to have to burn that town, so we were stuck outside its palisades dealing with sorties and setting up for siege, when Istvir gets a message via a Haafingar courier. And he takes that message straight to Ulfric, by himself."

"Huh," said Erdi. "Elisif sends no messages. She's watched too close."

"Jorluf sent it," said Yorvik. "Next thing we know, Istvir's ordered his people up and over the Karth-- boats at night, you can bet that was fun-- and there we are, standing outside of Solitude with its gates open to us and our brother Nords waving and grinning down. I find myself the one deputized by Istvir to secure the city gates and to maintain civic order."

"Why didn't Istvir just bring his Stormcloaks into the city?"

"Young lady, you have no idea what kind of effort it took to keep two hundred barely-trained young soldiers out of the first real city they'd seen in four months. Bad enough maintaining order in the city as it was." He sniffed. "In any event, it was Istvir's command. I suppose he didn't want his city burning down. And he did want us to try to negotiate the Blue Palace into a surrender before we went ahead with the assault on the palace."

"So you knew all about that?"

Yorvik was far too couth for an eye-roll. "It was never any secret whose son Istvir was, or that he felt he held birth-right to Haafingar and to Skyrim. He never shut up about that." He paused. "But consider-- Ulfric sent me onward to assist General Istvir. Not to stop him." 

"Huh," Erdi said.

"Well, that's certainly a surprise to some of us!" observed Sheogorath. "I've got friends in that court you know-- you should hear how they go on. Ulfric for High King...Skyrim for the Nords! Just like they've forgot they've got House Redoran breathing down their neck. Just waiting for..."

Hush! Erdi thought. 

"I can't know Ulfric's mind," Yorvik was saying, slowly. "But it would have made a good end. The last man living with the blood of a High King of Skyrim in his veins claiming the throne. Petitioning the jarlmoot and promising a free and independent Skyrim. No more Empire. No threat of Eastmarch coming in to lord it over Haafingar. Istvir's got no wife or child-- if Jarl Elisif were willing to marry him, that'd settle the issue of claimants. I think the thanes would have come around."

"The thanes and other jarls, perhaps, but what about the Empire?"

Yorvik said: "Well, now, the Empire's got a long-standing tradition of home rule. If the jarls and thanes presented a united front, Titus Mede himself'd have nothing to say of it. As to the question of independence, well--" he shrugged. "A change in leadership could present an excuse for almost any sort of policy change. It's not impossible that a new High King could have negotiated peace."

"I can hardly believe that Ulfric Stormcloak would have given up the High Kingdom as easily as that," Erdi said. 

"Give it up, for a swift end to this war? Ulfric's got other battles on his mind, you can bet that. And, well. You can be a good High King-- or a good jarl. Or you can have your death-and-glory, and your name ringing down the ages. You can guess what it is that Ulfric Stormcloak wants, and it's not to die in bed, not even a royal one. He's not that kind."

Erdi paused, curious. "What kind are you?"

Yorvik smiled sadly. "Me? I'm just another retired soldier. No one will remember me."

"Yorvik?"

They turned.

"What are you doing with my old sword?" Val asked.

"Ah, there you are," said her husband. "I had a thought. Let's go upstairs a moment."

Erdi said: "What's he about?"

Horst had followed his mother into the room. 

"No idea," said Horst, watching his parents go. "But that's Ma's old gladius; she used to carry it on courier duty for the Legion, way back when. She's got a lot of stories, but she lets Pa tell 'em for her." 

He said: "If you want to eat some dinner, better get some now-- and if you see anything you like, pack it up for supper on the road. Masser's going to be bright enough to light the way, so I'm off to Morthal as soon as the wagons are ready. Unless you'd rather travel with Jod and try to pick up a carriage to Morthal from Whiterun." He grinned. "My way's faster. We trade off shifts and sleep in the wagons so we don't have to stop as often. We trade out horses, too. The road's pretty new so it isn't too bad."

"Why are you going to Hjaalmarch?"

"Sending supplies down to the new settlement at Windstad Mine," the young man told her. "Jarl Idgrod needs to look over what we're sending, of course-- but it shouldn't take long. Never does. Guess it's handy being a witch."

"Any thoughts about how to get across the Karth, in winter?"

"They're running a ferry at Windstad," Horst said. "Kind of unofficial. Windstad's taking some people in from Solitude here and there, whenever they can."

"Ah," said Erdi. "Jorluf's men." 

"Likely," Horst agreed. "Are you up to riding guard? I can find you a better bow."

"It's balanced for a woman's hand," Val explained, a few minutes later. "My family wasn't any too happy when I joined up, but it was needful... and the Legion was taking pretty much anyone those days." She laughed. "There's standard equipment, and then there's what the great families can access. My father had it made for me, once he understood that I was serious."

She handed the weapon over.

"None of our girls went for soldiers," said Val. "Consider it my thanks, for bringing the old man back. I'd miss his chatter."

"It was just gathering dust," said Yorvik. "Thought maybe it deserved to be in use"

"Thank you," said Erdi, surprised and a little touched. She'd trained with the standard gladius, which had always felt too heavy and awkward for her. This one fit her grasp well.

"Get Beirand to take a look at it for you," suggested Ahtar. "Make sure the balance is right."

"I will try to do it justice," said Erdi, which would have come out more confident had she not been struggling to get the scabbard attached to her belt.

Ahtar helped her get it settled, and adjusted the strap for her. He had her test its draw, and nodded.

Ahtar and Yorvik had more advice, and Erdi nodded and smiled, wondering if Horst had the wagons all loaded yet. 

They meant well.

Past time to be listening, she thought, wearily, nodding and smiling at all the unwanted advice. Time to move forward.

"Finally!" said Lord Sheogorath. "Underway. Time for adventure!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erdi's story will continue in the forthcoming Golden Saint.


	10. Ahtar: Dreams. (Heljarchen Hall, Fredas, 13th of Sun's Dusk 4e202)

“Hey,” Ahtar protested. “You don’t got to do that for me.” He could get his own food, so what was she trying to-- Erdi had already drifted towards the laden table, so there was no stopping her. He settled back.

"You look like you’re feeling better," she said. "What was all that about, earlier? You never told me what it was you wanted to talk to Yorvik about."

Of course, Erdi was pretending that she hadn't heard him. Ahtar watched as she put a plate together. Baked leeks with crumbled cheese. Slaughterfish steak and a roast potato; and an egg coddle served in a cup, rich with cream and spice. The movements of her hands looked a bit unreal to him; with her winter-rough and reddened knuckles, but she served him with the same graceful flourish of old.

Ahtar took a few bites, hoping that would make her happy.

“Did you talk to Yorvik yet?” asked Erdi, settling down next to him with her own food.

“Nah. Wanted to lecture me first.”

Still picking on you about Cyrelian?” she wanted to know.

“Not so much, now that he knows what’s goin’ on. I’m sorry, Erdi. I know you like the elf, but--” Ahtar exhaled slowly through pursed lips, the way you breathe through a new injury that you know is about to start hurting, bad.

“Ancano told us Cyr was getting better!”

“What he told us was that he wasn’t makin’ plans to send him home. All I needed to hear.” His chest felt dull and empty inside. It wasn't hurting, yet. So Ahtar knew it would be bad.

Erdi continued to fuss at him.

Ahtar took his time spreading another chunk of butter over his bread, which didn’t need it. “Thalmor get shipped back to Shimmerene or Firsthold if they’re doing poorly. It’s real important to them to be there on the sacred isles with their kin if they pass, so they can get the proper rites.” He forced himself to take the bite and chewed it, brooding. “Practical people, though. Don’t even bother trying if they know it can't be done. Just send the ashes back, to do the rites later.”

“I have every faith in Cyr." Erdi was always ruthlessly upbeat. “You know how he is about getting his own way no matter what. He’s not going to let something like this beat him.” 

"Should have listened." Ahtar crumpled his napkin and tossed it onto the table. "Paid more attention. He was dying right there in front of me and I never even saw it." 

"Cyr never said a damned thing. How were we supposed to know he was that sick?" Erdi delved back into her eggs. "And we really don't know. Maybe Ancano's got a better reason for not sending Cyr home."

"I don't know what I was thinking there, anyways. Guess I was just being foolish." Ahtar exhaled again. "Jala always did look out for me-- thought it would've been good. But that's just, what do you call it." He interrupted his own rude gesture--jerking off, he'd meant-- to lean back in his chair. "Dreaming." 

"I think you're allowed to dream," she countered, and didn't that hurt like a knife in the lung.

To cover it, Ahtar snorted derision. 

"You said you wanted to go home," Erdi said, lowering her spoon. "Where to? Back to where your family's at in Anvil?"

"Nothing left for me in Solitude but sticks and ashes and a big fat fuckin' bounty on my head," agreed Ahtar. He strove to keep his voice light. "Not that I'm bitter." 

Erdi huffed. She continued to eat, her appetite unimpeded. 

Despite her efforts, Ahtar could only manage a few bites. His gut ached, too empty and too full.

“Your family’d take you in, wouldn’t they?” she asked, pointing the spoon at him. “Despite your bounty?”

“Oh, yeah. Jules would, and even if he couldn’t, my sisters would. County Anvil’s not going to give a damn about some provincial bounty. Not worth tangling with the Decianus gens over some quibble like that. The Decianii'd make it right with the Emperor, too. I got no worries about that. Just--” He frowned, thinking about how to manage the travel. “Getting all the way down there. Expensive, and tricky.”

"I'd sure like to see what kind of statement Aldis gave that led to you picking up that huge bounty in the first place," said Erdi.

"I was right behind Aldis when we ran to Castle Dour. Just a bit too slow. He slammed that fucking gate right on my hand." Ahtar mimed snatching his fingers back by reflex and laughed without mirth. "Should've bulled on through, but I could… “ His voice hiccupped for a moment, surprising even himself. “Couldn’t believe he actually did that. Aldis left me standing there like a fool. Meant to let the mob take me."

"Soon!" Erdi snapped out of nowhere, irritated. 

"Huh?" Ahtar startled.

"Sorry. Lord Sheogorath was going on and on about wanting another garden ornament, and I can't say I'm not tempted. Anyways--" Erdi gestured. "He’s not going to stop nagging till I go back to Haafingar, and I can't stop worrying about Marcus. So I'm going to leave for Solitude as soon as Horst is ready to go. I ought to be able to get myself there from Morthal." 

"Get on a boat to Anvil right now, if I could," Ahtar said. "Better than dealing with that Kyne-forsaken Ulfric. Dead or alive, Jala's come and haunt me if'n I go Stormcloak." 

"She's never going to forget about what happened to her brother," Erdi agreed.

"Thadric's own damn fault. Told him he had no business trying to play soldier. Jala don't see it that way. Understandable. He didn't die well. Happens." He looked at Erdi, but didn't say: hope it doesn't happen to you. Erdi wouldn’t like that.

A few lengthy moments later Erdi put her spoon down. “I never did understand. Why." 

"Why what?" Ahtar broke off another bit of bread and forced himself to eat it.

“Why a Thalmor?” she wanted to know, nose wrinkled. “Pretty much anyone else in the world would be less trouble. Cyr's not like the rest of them, but..." 

“I-- ah.” Ahtar shifted his weight in the chair, a bit troubled for reasons he couldn’t name. "I don’t know. Once I saw him… well. It just is."

“Doesn’t explain why it still is,” Erdi's voice had gone crisp.

Ahtar winced. Fair point. 

Since she was still hungry, he passed over his plate. He watched her eat all of it, and then she got up to get a sweet roll, breaking it apart into bits to make certain each bite had been dipped into some of its sweet icing. 

“Kind of nice knowing there’s a person in this world, done worse’n you have,” Ahtar said. “They don’t get all-- you know-- bothered. When they hear about-- ah.” He thought about it some more. "Thalmor didn’t have Cyr long enough to ruin him. He’s heard some shit though. Knows what they do; at least the parts of it he can stand to think about it. So he don’t get on his high horse.”

“I thought maybe the Thalmor had Cyr bespelled,” Erdi confided. “Sometimes the way he thinks, what he believes. That one time on the Icerunner, when he was denouncing slavetaking--” She took another bite. “It gave me chills.” 

“Don’t need spellwork to be blind to shit you don’t wanna see.”

“Mhm,” Erdi agreed, through a mouthful.

With a groan, Ahtar heaved himself to his feet. "Going to go see what the steward's got for me. Probably going to do courier duty for Yorvik for a little while, make some money." 

"Ah," said Erdi. "You're being sent to the provinces which don't have a price on your head, I reckon?" 

"Heh. The only other province without a price on my head. Whiterun Hold." 

"Meet up with you back in Winterhold?" Erdi suggested. "When this job is done. It may take awhile, but I made a promise to Thaena, that I would come help out. And, um." She hesitated. “If I get back first, want me to try to send a message if anything happens to Cyr?”

“Won’t make any difference. So don’t waste the money.” At the look on her face, Ahtar took care to soften his voice. “Rather not know, if it’s all the same. I’m gonna go back to see Korir anyways. So I’ll see you in Winterhold, if’n we don’t see each other again before you go.”

Erdi’s night-blue eyes had gone pensive. “See you in Winterhold,” she echoed.

Ahtar hoped to hell Erdi knew what she was doing. 

Because he didn’t know what he was going to be doing, himself.

Ahtar woke from a lengthy nap, and heard voices in the front hall. He came out just in time to watch Yorvik and Val gifting Erdi a family sword, and see her exultant pride.

It soured in his throat that he himself had never bothered to give Erdi a weapon. He'd watched her come down to civilian arms practice every week at Castle Dour, using the lending equipment each time. Would've been a trivial thing for him to do, then. He didn't have anything to give, now. So when the others went outside to see her off, he stayed in, staring around Yorvik's cozy firelit hall, which seemed duller and dimmer now that she had left.

"Heading upstairs to change clothes, now that all this nonsense of quarter-day is over and I can quit playing Thane for the now," said Yorvik. "Meet me down in my study in a few moments."

While the rest of Yorvik's home was reasonably modest, his work room held a library fit for a jarl's palace. Ahtar supposed he ought not to have been surprised. He couldn't think of anyone who had this many books in one place, other than Falk Firebeard's archives and the reading room down at the new museum.

“You wanted me present, Thane?” Jod said, arriving.

“No!” When the two of them looked at Ahtar, brows raised, he hedged. “Ah. I’d prefer he wasn’t.”

Yorvik overrode him: “Still a priest of Stendarr, I hear? I don’t find myself all that comfortable with Daedric Princes and signs and omens…sit down and get yourselves some ale."

“Yeah.” Jod took the offered chair. “I’m still under my vows, by my choice. I’m not beholden to the priory here, if that’s what you’re really asking. My oath is to Skald alone.”

“That’s exactly what I got a problem with,” said Ahtar. “Skald don’t need to be concerned. Just old history.”

"I only look stupid,” Jod asserted. “Just because I’m loyal doesn’t mean I’m gonna pass along every bit of gossip I pick up. No sense setting Skald off over every little thing.”

Yorvik winced in agreement, but: “Even so. Let’s have your oath on it, priest.”

A bit puzzled, Jod nodded.

“Also I want the room warded,” Yorvik added.

“I’m not a mage." Jod looked hesistant. “Not even in the least.”

“No mages here,” said Yorvik. “Stendarr’s blessing will have to suffice.”

Jod finished his ale in silence, his thoughts gone inward. After a few moments he got up to perform the rite.

By the time Jod had finished walking the bounds of the room, the air within seemed calmer, warmer. To Ahtar, it brought comfort, like curling up in in his own bed-- he could see it, the quilt tossed over his bunk at Castle Dour, in the little storage room just downstairs from the Head Jailor’s office. He’d slept there most days, when the thought of walking all the way back up to his own house after a late-night shift seemed too much. 

Jod came back to Yorvik and put his hand to his heart to swear; and Ahtar wondered again: what in hell was going on?

“All right then,” said Yorvik. “Maybe I’m just looking over my shoulders too much, but given that we’ve had the actual Prince of Nightmares and Prince of Madness taking an interest in us poor folk, I thought it’d be best to do what we could to shut them out. And other malign spirits. This has been an odd year, without question.” He paused. “Well. Reminds me...”

Story time. 

Ahtar shifted his legs to sit more comfortably. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jod settling in, wearing the same resigned expression.

“... there I was, minding my own business in Bruma as an administrative captain for the 7th Legion, happily moving papers around from one side of my desk to the other… and I happened to notice that it’d got really quiet.”

Yorvik paused just long enough to let the other two men feel the quiet. A log popped in the hearth.

“You know how it gets, when men have gone so still that they aren’t even breathing? I was just about to go see what it was, when in storms my Legate, and with him is the Emperor Titus Mede himself, gripping the arm of this white-haired kid, barely more than a stripling, dressed in Legion leathers and a ratty old cloak. Glaring daggers at both of them.” 

Ahtar blinked.

Yorvik rubbed at his bald spot with his hand, pretending that he wasn’t trying to avoid eye contact. 

“Mind you, this was, mm, two years after Red Ring, while we were still picking up all the pieces, so I was used to odd things, but this was ah-- a bit different. The Emperor, he doesn’t want my salute. He waves me back to my seat and says: ‘You’re one of the Stormcloak thanes, aren’t you? Do you recognize this young man?’ And the kid says: ‘No, Thane, you don’t,’ and sets his jaw at me.”

Ahtar realized that his mouth was hanging open. “I never heard this before.” 

Yorvik turned his mild gaze in Ahtar’s direction. He’d interrupted.

Ahtar closed his mouth.

Yorvik resumed: “So of course, I told the Emperor who it was he’d got hold of: Estavan Crown-of-Stars, come all the way down to us from Windhelm, after the holdmoot declined to put an untried boy on old Hoag’s throne. They’d named Ulfric as jarl, for all that he was still in custody. Probably a smart move. Trying to leverage the Emperor into getting him released, I’d reckon, though none of them ever brought me into their confidence on that.”

Jod and Ahtar traded glances. Wise or unwise, the thanes’ ploy had worked. Ulfric had been released from captivity and delivered to Eastmarch-- just in time to thwart the aspirations of his eldest sister’s son.

To Jod, Yorvik said: “Jarl Hoag wasn’t quite dead, of course, but he was incapable by then. So here we had this white-headed boy; Hoag’s grandson, come all the way down to Bruma to petition the Emperor and demand that the Mede set things right. Overrule the thanemoot and give him Eastmarch as he deserved, as he was the son of his mother; and his mother was Hoag’s only named heir. Oh, and while the Emperor was at it, grant him Skyrim. Since that was his by right, too.”

Yorvik sipped delicately at his own drink, and poured from the bottle on his desk to top off his cup.

“Huh.” Ahtar took his first long drink of the ale. It was dark and richly bitter. A good winter drink. He settled back in his chair. “How’d the Emperor take all that?”

Yorvik grimaced. “Not well.”

Ahtar could well imagine.

“So this is what Titus Mede says to me: ‘I don’t particularly care where you send him, Tribune, but he doesn’t stay with me. I’m not nursing up another Stormcloak bratling to stab me in the back.” Yorvik cleared his throat. “Mind, I did point out that this particular bratling was also the rightful High King of Skyrim. The Emperor’s opinion happened to be that it made matters worse, not better.”

“Wouldn’t even hear Estavan’s petition, then?” Jod asked.

“No. The emperor said that in his opinion Skyrim was best left to home rule; and if this young troublemaker wanted to be High King so badly, he could go fight for it, as per--” Yorvik gave a soft little cough. “Nordic tradition.”

Jod grumbled something under his breath.

“Anyways, the Emperor wanted me to get him back up north to his family; and I had to explain. The boy’s mother Crown-of-Stars was dead; and old Hoag his grandfather nearly so, so no help for him from the Palace of the Kings. Eastmarch’s thanes were ruling the roost back at home, which is why we’d been seeing that deluge of Dunmeri veterans headed down Silver Road towards Cheydinhal, where they might be more welcome.” 

Ahtar snorted. One of the first signs of trouble out of Windhelm, and it wouldn’t be the last of that sort. 

Yorvik shook his head over it. “Windhelm’d been such a mess that I took my family back to Heljarchen, revoked our allegiance and swore to the Pale. Might have been some trouble about that if anyone had taken charge of Eastmarch; but no one had. A couple months later it didn’t matter. My old Legate pulled me back into the service, so the wife and I relocated to Bruma. Which is how I got into this situation.”

Ahtar finished off his own cup. “Hope the Mede didn’t suggest you run ‘Stavan up to Haafingar. That wouldn’t have gone so well.” Ahtar bit his tongue on the next sentence. Here he was, as thirsty for Thane Yorvik’s words as he was for the man’s good ale-- but the last thing Ahtar needed was for this conversation to take place in front of Jod. Where was Yorvik even going with all this? 

Fuck it. Ahtar got himself more of the good ale.

“Well, we were still all arguing about it when the kid says, all solemn-like: “If the jarlmoot will not not have me, and you do nothing, then it is your lands that will suffer kingless. Let those dogs tear at each other bleeding; I will live and die in the Legion.” Yorvik meant his words to be funny, echoing the deathly-earnest intensity of youth; but they rolled down Ahtar’s backbone with a cold chill.

“Kyne,” Ahtar swore. Into his cup, he breathed: “So it was.”

None of them spoke till Yorvik drew a breath.

“I smoothed things over as best I could; pointed out to his Imperial Majesty that we couldn’t just disappear a man who’d taken the Legionary Oath, even if he was barely sixteen and a horrendous political liability. The Legion now held a certain responsibility towards him. Oh, and also that I wasn’t a Tribune; I was merely one of Legate Sevan’s former field commanders; now captain, and doing administrative work at that.”

“And for all that backchat, Titus Mede named you Tribune.”

“Oh, that wasn’t enough punishment for speaking out of turn, I fear. I was also put in charge of a rabble of youngling officers; all Nords, all just as willful and arrogant as Estavan Crown-of-Stars. A prince needs companions.” Yorvik drank more of his ale, wiping away the thin rime of wet. “I had a full head of hair in those days, you know.”

“You thought I was difficult,” said Ahtar.

“Hmm. You were worse,” corrected Thane Yorvik. “Anyways, what stuck with me was the phrase he used. Dogs tear at each other bleeding. I will never forget that.” 

“What did happen to Prince Estavan?” said Jod. “There’s a lot of stories.”

“Forsworn.” Ahtar pitched his voice so as to discourage further inquiry. “No mystery about it. It was bad.”

“Now you won’t credit this,” said Yorvik. “But I keep feeling like we’re squinting over the map table again at the little pieces, struggling to see the whole of the enemy’s plan.” He looked to Jod. “Why are the Daedra so active right now? Do Stendarr's priests know?”

Jod rubbed his chin. “It’s not just the Daedra. Lots of reports in from travelers. Vampires, lycanthropes, revenants… if only it were just the dragons and the Imperials.” He laughed, unhappy. “Jarl Skald says that what we’re seeing is the displeasure of Talos, but it sure would be nice if any of the Aedra took any interest at all. Stendarr, Talos, whoever.”

“Oh, you liked that little bit of theater?” Thane Yorvik looked pleased. “Skald’s no mooncalf fool. Nor am I. Dawnstar’s completely indefensible from Haafingar, you know. So it pays to remind Ulfric who his biggest backer is.” He cleared his throat, looking at Ahtar. “Your-- ah-- nephew Marcus thinks we’ve also got the Thalmor performing human sacrifices to perpetrate all this rising evil in the world. Now that I would credit.”

Ahtar growled annoyance.

Jod cut him off: “Everything in Skyrim’s breaking down at once, it seems. Like some evil hand’s at work. Huh. Maybe it is the Thalmor, looking to soften us up.”

“That’s just fucking stupid,” snapped Ahtar.

Thane Yorvik cleared his throat.

Ahtar went on: “Thalmor’d be idiots to even try. They don’t need or want this place. Look at a damn map if you don’t wanna listen to me. The Dominion wouldn’t be ready to come sail up here for a couple hundred years. Maybe a couple thousand. They don’t care about us; they’re just tweaking the tail of the Empire. Oh, if they wanted, they could send more a their Justiciars to poke harder, stir up more shit, really try to fuck Skyrim up worse… but if they do too good a job, House Redoran will see a nice fat goose to pluck and we’d all end up speakin’ Dunmeris.” 

“Elves,” muttered Jod under his breath, meaning that all those bastards would hang together.

“Kyne, don’t be such a fool.” Ahtar slapped his empty cup down onto the table. “You think some Summerset Altmer’s gonna make common cause with a Dunmer? A Thalmor’d rather sit down to table with you.” 

Jod made a noise of disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

“Oh, you wanna know what the Thalmor think? Humans might worship some false devil-god, right… but that’s cause we’re all dumbass and deluded. Some a them seem to think they can still beat it out of us, like we’re naughty kids. But Dunmer--”

Yorvik whistled softly through his teeth.

Ahtar kept eyes on him. That was Yorvik’s thinking face.

“Dunmer split off from the Aldmeri thousands of years ago,” Ahtar said. “They walked away from the true path to go follow Daedra that the Altmer hate more than anything-- you should see what they’ve got written in some of those religious books of theirs. Dunmer are stained with iniquity, the Thalmor say; that’s what makes them ash-faced. Cursed by their own vengeful goddess.”

Jod started to answer back but then made a face, meaning he agreed: that was really fucking stupid. “Stained with iniquity? Sounds like a bad children’s story.”

Ahtar shrugged.

“Every man hates his brother more than he hates a stranger, that’s for certain,” Yorvik put in, to cement that uneasy peace. “Why we’re in these straits.” 

Ahtar looked at his former Tribune’s worn and knob-knuckled hands; at the cased swords and scrolls; and the blue banner hanging over all. Four sons-- Offa, Yorvik, and Elgar gone to the Legion. And Horst, cheerfully loading up goods for Morthal, and hoping he wouldn’t run afoul of any soldiers along the way. One of Yorvik’s daughters had married into a Bruma family; they wouldn’t be hearing from her anytime soon, trapped behind the wreckage that had been Pale Pass.

He bowed his head. They were all silent for a long time, in respect for the troubles of this house.

Yorvik cleared his throat. “I keep circling back to that, over and over again. Haafingar and Eastmarch, the brothers at each other’s throats, time and again. How I wish--” his voice cracked a little. “How I wish we had your man back with us. Estavan Crown-of-Star’s the only one who could have healed this split.”

Now Ahtar had to look away against welling tears, his hands clamped down hard upon the carved armrests of his chair. Yorvik’d never said much about ‘Stavan in Ahtar’s presence before, except to needle Ahtar about it… if he even bothered to acknowledge it. Hell, Yorvik hadn’t acknowledged shit. No one--

With effort, Ahtar pulled his hands loose, letting them curl into loose fists.

Something thumped against his shoulder; it was Jod, crossing behind him on the way to ale cask, offering sympathy. He took Ahtar’s cup while he was at it, too, and filled it before reseating himself.

“That’s the missing piece, is it?” asked Jod, thoughtful. “No rightful High King. Like the troubles the Empire had when the Septim dynasty fell. Let me tell you what the Chorrol priory had to say about that...”

Ahtar took another breath, and swallowed, hard. He took another drink, not that he wanted it, just to hide his face. 

Not your secret to tell. 

Thane Erikur’s voice, hard and angry and without any of his usual bluster; warning Ahtar over and over again until he got it. Fever dreams or no, anything out of Ahtar’s mouth risked ‘Stavan’s kids’ lives. Especially in Haafingar, in front of the very people who would benefit if those kids were done away with. No one knew. No one. And no one would know, until it was time to--

Ahtar’s chest hurt. So much time had passed. The boy-- he must be nearly sixteen now, and what had Erikur done for him, but hide him on that farm?

He wanted very badly to speak, but there was nothing he could do. Jod and Yorvik were sworn by oath now; and if they meant to be king-makers, the king they meant to make was Ulfric Stormcloak. 

The ale had turned on him. All at once, Ahtar felt sick.

He blundered outside.

“I can’t be in there,” said Ahtar, still panting shallowly. “I can’t listen to all that talk.”

Jod regarded him in silence for a little. Then:

“Stendarr’s last mercy. Got no call to be going around looking like that, like the fate of Nirn’s all your fault.”

“Yeah,” said Ahtar, tautly. He kept still. 

After a few moments Jod said, “When’re you leaving for Whiterun Hold? If you wanted company on the road, I was gonna head out before dawn.”

“Yeah, that’d be alright," Ahtar said, voice still thick. "Think we’ll make it before dark?”

“No,” said Jod. “But it’s a good road and a good moon. I’m stopping at Loreius’ steading, but you should be able to see the lights of Dragonsreach from there, unless it’s snowing.”

Ahtar nodded. “Thane’s got a couple messages for the Companions. And I wouldn’t mind stopping in at Kyne’s temple.” Why’n hell’d he said that? Skald’s housecarl had a knack for worming out confidences.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Jod said. “What with all that’s going on. Going back to the Hall of the Vigilant was a mistake. Like trusting a ladder rung I shouldn’t of. What a disaster.” He settled down next to Ahtar and groaned as his knee popped. “Keeper Joscelin would have a heart seizure if he could see what’s become of the place.”

Ahtar grunted.

After a few more minutes, Jod said: “You believe that talk about Carcette being a vampire?”

“Nah, that’s just Erdi. How she gets. Air-dreaming. You spend more time around her, you’ll see.” Ahtar looked towards him, half-expecting a lecture. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s come a long ways, but her head ain’t in the right place for this kinda work.”

“I hope she’s wrong, but--” Jod shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of shit these past few days.”

“Kyne.” Ahtar nodded agreement. “I just hope she doesn’t get herself kilt.”

“She’ll be alright with Horst,” said Jod. “That kid’s pretty sensible, and he’ll get them to Morthal right quick. He’s sweet on the jarl’s daughter, so he’s not wasting time getting there.” Jod paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, as if knowing he was getting into sensitive territory. “Thane was pretty hard on you, back at the hand-washing.”

Ahtar shrugged it off.

Jod persisted: “That ain’t right.”

“Me’n ‘Stavan made Yorvik’s life a living hell. You wouldn’t even believe the trouble we got up to. So I kinda get it. It’s-- ah-- more than just Yorvik’n the way he is.” More quietly: “And he ain’t real happy about…”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jod. “I got an earful about that Thalmor elf of yours. Yorvik thinks he’s got some kind of hold on you. You think he does?”

Ahtar puffed out a painful breath. “Yeah, right.”

“Thalmor are tricky.” Jod glanced at him. “You sure?”

“The Thalmor Advisor to Winterhold thinks it was the First Emissary’s own people who did Cyr up like that. So any tricks the Thalmor got Cyr set up to be doing, fat lot of good it’ll do them now; spells’ll die when he--” Ahtar shifted his feet. “Ah, don’t go talking to Erdi about it if you see her, she’s convinced he’ll do fine. She don’t need to be running back to Winterhold to be sitting over his bed. She had enough of that shit taking care of me.”

“Hm?”

“Jala had some money back when this happened.” Ahtar traced the painful scar down his face. “It was right about when things started to go wrong for Erdi. So Jala hired her to sit with me. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t walk. Couldn’t barely move without ripping open the skin on my arm or my back, so--” he shrugged. “Guess I ought not to be bitching that Erdi likes to tell stories. Cause if she didn’t, I woulda lost my mind.”

Jod raised his brow. “Sure you didn’t?”

Ahtar’s lip curved back, on his good side. “Maybe I did. But it don’t matter. Thane’s got nothing to worry about. I don’t mind killing Thalmor. Seems to me there’s a few need killing.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” said Jod.

They watched the sun lower further, painting the long dun-brown fields and tipping the bare tree branches with gilt, filling the air with a hazy golden light.

“Yorvik said, whatever it is you’re sitting on, he’d really like to hear about it from you.”

Ahtar remained silent.

“You can tell me,” Jod persisted. “Under the seal, if you want.”

Ahtar stifled his first response; the man was trying to be civil. “Appreciate the offer. That ain’t it, not really. If I got any faith left for anyone in this world, guess it’d have to be Yorvik, he’s the only one ain’t changed a bit. It’s just-- I’m not alone in this.”

“Well, that’s odd,” said Jod. “Thane told me to tell you that same thing. You’re not alone in this.”

Ahtar flinched. 

“He’s gonna do something; send a letter to your kin, maybe petition the Emperor; whatever it takes, he said. Because Tullius putting that bounty on your head; that was bullshit. He says-- he remembers who his people are. You can stay as long as you need. He wants to help.” 

Jod shut up when he saw that Ahtar’d put both hands over his own face.

Jod stayed quiet.

“You can tell Yorvik I appreciate the sentiment but there’s only one person whose help I can trust on this one and I ain’t about to go mistakin’ him for my wife.” Ahtar hiccuped a laugh and wiped his cheeks with his palms. “So he can rest easy.” Under his breath he said, “Either Jala gets home to Anvil safe or she won’t, and once she does-- shit. Guess I started that time-candle burning all on my own.” 

Because it was true. As soon as Jala and the book got to Anvil, well, Ahtar had no illusions as to how Julius Decianus was going to handle the matter; that book would be in Titus Mede’s hands as quick as someone could get it to the Emperor’s Palace. 

“Fuck. My thoughts are porridge,” Ahtar admitted. “I can’t make sense of this. I tell people, since I got hurt I ain’t been right.”

“Give it a little while,” Jod suggested. “It’ll come clear to you.”

“Been over a decade.” Ahtar stood up, slowly. Just as deliberately he shook the grit out of his cloak and re-pinned it, sighing. “Come on. I came all the way down here to talk to Yorvik about this, so I guess that’s what I’m gonna do. I just--” he found himself gazing eastward, out over the low valley as it rose to the mountainous passes headed towards Eastmarch. “I just don’t like it, because I know where this is going.”

He was going to have to place his trust in Ulfric Stormcloak.

Kyne's mercy.

Maybe Ahtar would get lucky and Yorvik wouldn’t get upset.

"Talos smite me where I stand, Sulla, what now?! And I suppose you're going to tell me that you've got Freydis' Crown stashed away someplace, too--" He took a breath. "The first thing Ulfric's going to ask me is: Where is this boy-- or is this just another one of your stories, Yorvik?" He drew an audible breath. "Damn you for keeping this from me! You had no excuse for this shit when you were twenty! What the hell else are you withholding?"

Yorvik's wife had to come downstairs to hush him.

“Well, ah, there’s the girl, too,” Ahtar added quickly. “She’s in High Rock, though. When Gilfre left Skyrim, she took her daughter along. We all were agreed on that. Thinking it was better if they weren’t in the same place.”

“Who knows this?” Yorvik demanded.

“Thane Erikur,” said Ahtar. “And Gisli. Being as Gilfre's their sister. Korir knew-- at the time he knew."

Ahtar had never quite told Aldis, and right now he was glad he hadn't. 

Yorvik was still looking thunderous. 

Ahtar cleared his throat and went on: "Jala, of course. Rest of my family by now, too, probably. Assuming Jala made it on through to Anvil and she thought it was a good idea to share all that with the Decianii. I left that up to her.” Ahtar rubbed at the scar on his face, where it kept tightening. “Maybe the Emperor too, by now; those documents could be their way to him, ‘cause she Jala had them when she got on board, and that’s what Jules would want to do with ‘em. Who knows. Sorry. Didn’t have a lot of time to think.”

“So the ship that slipped out of Solitude harbor under our noses--" Yorvik drew breath and visibly chose to drop his voice-- "That was your wife? Carrying along all of the legal documents attesting to the birth and legitimacy of Estavan Crown-of-Star’s children?”

“Um. Yeah.” Ahtar shifted his feet. “We were gettin' run out of town by the Stormcloaks, so all I could think was that it was important to get everyone safe. Jala. An' what those papers represented."

“Ah, shit,” Jod said, wearily.

Yorvik for once had been rendered speechless. He made an angry gesture.

"Hey!" said Ahtar, as it looked like Yorvik's little lecture was about to start up again. "I had no cause to think the Legion was gonna do me like that. Erdi says there's a twenty thousand gold bounty on me up at Castle Dour, dead or alive. And I don't even fucking know why. All I did was get myself out before you people could put my head on the gate."

Yorvik looked skyward for a long moment, as though summoning patience. With himself, with Ahtar, with this whole fucked-up situation. Since there was nothing Yorvik could do to fix it, he vented frustration: "Sounds familiar. You disappearing. You have to know all of us were waiting on you, right? Just waiting for you to give the word. And you were just-- gone."

Ahtar drew a long breath of his own, to swallow past the lump in his throat. When he could speak, he strained to keep his voice soft and low, willing Yorvik to understand.

“Yeah. I know, Sorry for wasting everyone's time. That's not why I went away-- I had to see to the kids!--but it is why I stayed away." Another painful breath. "I had no interest, Calvus. If I had cared to do it, I'd have given the order to ride for Haafingar the moment they pulled him from that godsforsaken cave."

“You'd have had the Seventeenth Legion as well as Ulfric’s Stormcloaks at your back,” said Yorvik. "Damned shame to throw all that away."

The muscles of Ahtar's face had pulled so taut that his jaw ached something fierce, and he knew his scars had twisted his features into something wholly grotesque. He opened and closed his hands, taking a few slow breaths. Willing himself to relax. “Would’ve been one hell of a funeral cortege," he agreed, softly. "Doubt any good would've come of it."

“You would’ve got to throw that useless squeaker Torygg off that arch,” Yorvik said, cannily, to force a break in the tension.

Their laughter was forced at first, but then wholehearted.

"I'll tell you," said Ahtar. "Thane Erikur didn't wanna budge. What he's waiting on, I don't know. So this kid doesn't even know. And I was beginnin' to think we was all gonna end up taking that secret with us to Sovengarde. 'Stavan wouldn't give me no peace. He'd be going on and on about how I forgot and left his kid to be a farmer." He shook his head. "Didn't want to send the boy on to High Rock to be raised by some noble house. Thought it was important for him to grow up in Skyrim. An' I didn't want him to get all wild and spoilt like--"

Yorvik was nodding. "He's how old now?"

"Sixteen come the turn of the year," said Ahtar.

"That's a man's age," Yorvik observed. "Time and past for you to get down there and speak to the boy. He deserves to know. He should have known long before now."

Yorvik made a few other suggestions, all of them well-founded. "And I’ll suppose I'll seek an audience with Ulfric. Alone. That do?”

“Take care with that,” Ahtar cautioned. “Feel Ulfric out first. Maybe he’s already got some marriage lined up for himself. Or has some other heir in mind.”

“Go on down to the pond and teach the fish to swim,” Yorvik snorted. He outlined some other ideas for Ahtar to pursue. 

Ahtar was slow to agree, but in the end he conceded. It wasn't a job Ahtar could take on, himself. He sure as hell wasn't in shape for it.

The trek from Heljarchen down towards Whiterun Hold was uneventful. Jod preferred to walk in silence, which suited Ahtar just fine. They passed a giant camp on the way, a new one, Jod said. 

Jod wasn't happy about it. 

The camp was fairly close to a handful of farms that belonged to Jod's kin, and the jarl of Whiterun still held to the Imperial law which stated that giants were to be left strictly alone. The giants had been expanding their territory of late, and were becoming a real menace to smallholders.

"Isn't right," said Jod, meaning that a man ought not to have to abandon his home to suit the needs of some man-shaped creature that was little more than a savage beast. Giants took cows, and they were more than happy to kill men, too.

By the time they got to Loreius Farm, the weather had turned to heavy wet snow, so Ahtar spent the night. Jod went off to stay with his kin, and Ahtar sat up to chat with Curwe Loreius, who was thrilled to get a visitor who could speak Altmeris and knew at least a little of the last season's news from Alinor.

"Well, you kind of got to know it to keep up at court," Ahtar said, and ate another bit of pickled fish. "Otherwise you just get talked over. And it's useful. Thalmor don't ever keep in mind we can understand them."

Curwe sniffed. She was not fond of Thalmor. She had a tale to tell about a farmhand who'd gone missing.

He continued onward in the grey light of dawn, thinking and walking.

The lower elevation of Whiterun Hold kept the temperature much warmer than it had been up in the high mountain valleys of The Pale, and the wind had dropped to nothing, but the weather couldn't decide if it wanted to be foggy or snow, and the cold mist had chilled him clear through.

Ahtar paused for a look over the battlements. He had never seen this place in winter.

The guards took their time passing Ahtar through.

"I got a message for Vignar," he finally snapped. "Gonna let me in, or do I gotta find a kid to run a message up to him? He ain't gonna like having to walk all the way down here."

Vignar'd had a game leg, what, thirteen years ago, so that seemed a pretty fair bet.

The guards let him through with the usual admonition.

Since none of the guards were paying enough attention to see the gesture that Ahtar made, he was fairly certain that they were not actually keeping an eye on him.

Jorrvaskr was nowhere near as big or as imposing as Ahtar'd remembered it.

Well, fuck. He hoped he was making the right choice.

No hope for it, if it wasn't. He had to fucking well do something, right?

He went on.


	11. Ahtar: Escort Duty. (Whiterun Hold, Loredas, 14th of Sun's Dusk 4e202)

Ahtar blinked against Jorrvaskr's smoke and the dim. Although it wasn't that much past dawn, the feasting-room sat deserted, with only the remains of breakfast on the table.

Ahtar remembered this place loud, bright, and choking-thick with the fug of man and dog and half-cured hides; the press of the crowd against his back as the reciting went on and on; the bard's voice booming against the ancient timbers till it was done. After, the man could barely whisper; Ahtar had brought him a horn of mead.

But that had been his only visit, just another Imperial soldier in a crowd of soldiers, all present to attend Legate Jonna's pyre. No one here would know him.

A man in wolfs-head armor stood up as Ahtar came in, and moved to stand before him. The man moved with the upright professional bearing of a Legionary officer. Whoever he was, he walked like he owned the place, but he spoke without any posturing at all: "State your business with the Companions."

"Messages from Thane Yorvik of the Pale, and from Jarl Skald himself, all addressed to your Harbinger." Ahtar handed over the packet, meek as any courier. "And I have business of my own with Vignar Gray-Mane."

The Companion grunted. "Where you from?"

"The Seventeenth," called a voice from across the room. Vignar Gray-Mane made his slow way over to a side chair. "Some time after the war, as I recall. The youngest of the Decianus boys; adopted out of Hammerfell. Temporary duty'd out to Ulfric's lot, during that bad patch in the Reach. Crown-of-Stars' man, am I right?" 

"Oh, ah--" Ahtar took a seat, a little disoriented, feeling like he'd just been heralded by a boaster. He struggled to marshal his thoughts. "Yeah. I ah-- came down here to ask a favor. Of the Companions. Yorvik suggested it, but he thought it might get a little too political for you all, ah--" 

The Companion in armor was watching them, still and silent.

"Skjor," said Vignar. "It's all right. Go."

"At your will, Commander." The Companion disapproved. Nonetheless, he went towards the door, as unhurried as if it had been his idea to leave.

"Mother hen," grumbled Vignar to him, under his breath. "I'm not helpless, boy."

Ahtar's lips twitched, but he managed to keep still. That 'boy' was at least fifteen years Ahtar's senior. Vignar was probably twice that.

Vignar's searching gaze returned to Ahtar's face, mapping out his scars; the marks of weariness and travel. "Friend of Ulfric's, were you?"

"Man's got too many friends, these days, if you ask me." Ahtar snorted. "All of them with their hands out."

"Heard you're the one who gets his axe wet for Tullius." Vignar's voice had given up on charm and turned silky; insulting. Testing: "That where you get that epithet of yours, son?'

"In the Reach," growled Ahtar the Executioner. "As well you know." 

Vignar didn't seem real impressed.

So Ahtar leaned forward, his lips pulled back far enough that he could feel the tug against his scars. "As for whoring, Ulfric was perfectly happy to make use of us while it served his purpose, but when it didn't--" he opened a hand and-- his mind stuttered. When he looked, he could still see it, where the blood had streaked down his palm. Throughout that whole year, his hands had never been clean. Ahtar had to stop for a moment.

Vignar was still listening.

"Ulfric hauls us in, says 'cash out or get drummed out'; and he'd got the Legion and my family behind him on that, so there it was. You know what? Fuck that. Fuck him. What was I gonna do, roll over and slink home to Anvil? I took my money and went up to Solitude, since I didn't have anywheres to go. Sure as shit wasn't going to stay in Markarth."

"Mm," said Vignar Gray-Mane. "Heard you were the Head Jailor up there. Bent the rules a little. Took a little money here and there."

"Might of," said Ahtar, just as coolly. And: "You're welcome."

"I'll let the whelp thank you himself, since he still has his head to do it with." Vignar paused. "You had to know what was happening, up in Solitude. Why didn't you come around?"

"Think I didn't?" Ahtar folded his arms. "Tullius has a twenty thousand gold bounty on me, says I did. He tacked up a sign that says I ran off and joined up with the Stormcloaks."

"You took that man Roggvir's head. Didn't you?" Vignar demanded. "There's a thousand-gold bounty with the Stormcloaks says you did."

Ahtar fixed him with a cold stare. "Takes an axe to make a martyr."

Vignar was silent for a long moment, assessing him. Then he broke into a laugh.

Ahtar didn't budge. 

"Don't you try and flimflam me." Vignar seemed pleased that Ahtar had even tried. "I was an old dog before you were a pup. You can't sit there and tell me you were part of Jorluf's little operation, because you weren't. I know who was."

"I let the man give his speech," said Ahtar. "He sat in my jail a few days, working on it." He shrugged. "Roggvir's door was open. Could've left any time. You know how it goes. I bend the rules."

"You expect me to believe that one, do you?"

"It don't matter now," Ahtar said. "Roggvir was just another one a those blowhard assholes who always seem to end up in the guard. Nothing special and he knew it. Better to be a dead sabrecat than a live skeever, he said. He said he had no worries-- he was goin' straight to Sovengarde, and for all I know he did."

Vignar grunted.

Ahtar went on: " Jorluf's little club was Nords only. And my wife woulda killed me for turning Stormcloak, after what got done to those scouts down here on Whiterun plain. Her brother was one. Girl he was sweet on, another."

Vignar winced. "Sent a message all right, but not the one Ulfric meant to deliver."

"Yeah, well, what I seen of Ulfric's war so far hasn't left me very impressed." Ahtar looked around. "So which of your guys are you gonna call up here to collect on the bounty? Haafingar's willing to pay more, I guess they should try there first. Better get cash in hand before turning me over."

"That's the Legion for you, these days," Vignar agreed. "None of them reliable. So. Which way are you going to jump?"

"Legion shit on me twice. Ulfric..." Ahtar pondered. "Ulfric's only did it once, and truthfully he was at the Legion's beck and call on that one. Didn't let him do it twice, though. Can't say I'm thrilled about giving him another chance. You?"

"The Companions shall not be a party to wars or political conflicts of any kind." Vignar Gray-Mane folded his arms and looked stern. Well, there was Vignar's attempt at bullshittting. 

At least Ahtar'd got a good long laugh.

"Yeah, yeah, Yorvik told me to ask you when're you gonna resign," he subsided, wheezing a little. Warm in here. Ahtar loosened the pin of his cloak.

"Not up to me," said Vignar. "Have to see how things go." He lifted his brow. "We could sit here all day. I've got nothing else to do."

"Look. I need assurances before this goes any further," Ahtar said. He hadn't been offered hospitality yet; hell, not so much as a cup of water. Vignar was old-Nord; Ahtar knew the significance of that lack. This was not, as yet, a discussion between allies.

"The Companions are a mercenary organization," Vignar suggested, his voice silky again. "Hire us."

Ahtar took a sharp breath, and then another. He felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. He had nothing to put on the table. No gold, no property, no-- he swallowed.

"Used to be a wealthy man." Ahtar touched his face. "Before all this. These days? Just another beggar walking the road looking for work. So I can't ah--"

Vignar's face creased back into amusement. "Got a septim or two?"

Startled, Ahtar touched his belt-pouch. "Yeah, ah, Yorvik gave me a little for the road--"

VIgnar put his hand out. "Let's have it. No, no. I only need one." He pushed it to the side of the table and said: "There now. The Companions stand ready to hear your proposition and avow that they will not take advantage of your confidence to seize any benefit; Kyne and Talos witness, lest our swords turn against us and our shields crack asunder." He leaned forward himself, eyes bright. "So, I have to admit, I'm curious about what Yorvik's volunteered us for. Let's hear it."

Ahtar cleared his throat. "Nurse-maidin'."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Fifteen-year-old boy, living in a place we was pretty certain was gonna be out of the way. His sister and mother left for High Rock some time back, so they ain't a consideration right this moment. It's important he stays in Skyrim. He's gonna need his martial training soon, and he very definitely's gonna need a housecarl, bodyguard, something. Once shit gets known."

"Jorrvaskr's not a boarding school," said Vignar Gray-Mane. "What makes you think that we'd take this child on?"

Ahtar told him.

Vignar exhaled. His fingers tapped the table. "That'd have been a fine thing to have known, eleven years back."

"I had everyone pressing in on me from all sides," Ahtar said, defensively. "And one of 'em, still don't know who, sold 'Stavan out to the Forsworn. So I did what needed done. Got those kids safe." He cleared his throat. "You could say no, let it go. Boy'll grow up to be, I don't know, a cowherd. Farmhand. Traveling tinker. Point is, he don't know a thing."

"The Harbinger needs to weigh in on this. And--"

"Yorvik's handling the when and whether," Ahtar said. "I'm just not comfortable going to Hoaggsen. I don't know Ulfric's mind these days."

Vignar scoffed silently, as if to say, who does. He gestured towards the door leading to the private rooms of Jorrvaskr. "Don't act surprised when you see him. None of us are quite what we were. Still the Harbinger, no doubt of that."

Ahtar walked down the long hall slowly. 

Down here it was cozy and warm, the stone walls keeping out the damp winter chill. He could hear the low murmur of conversation in a couple of rooms, but for the most part the Companions were out at work or play.

The rugs were the only thing lavish about this place, but it was well kept up. He wiped his feet again on the mats, carefully, and went on.

At the far end of the hall, Kodlak White-Mane sat in a chair, head bowed, as if he were drowsing. He shifted a little, and Ahtar could see that he still held the pages of Yorvik's letter clutched in one hand; the Harbinger was lost in thought.

Ahtar waited to approach.

"Come, sit." Kodlak's gaze was just as piercing as it had been fifteen years back, even if the man himself had greyed and thinned. "Yorvik has sent me quite a tale of your deeds, Executioner. May I have a look at you? I would know your heart."

Ahtar'd heard the stories; it was said this Harbinger could look into souls to see a man's worth. A gift of the gods; or maybe it was a magickal sight, of the sort that Marcus had. Ahtar wasn't at all certain how he would bear up under such scrutiny. Still, he nodded.

Kodlak White-Mane did not speak for several long minutes. It grew so quiet that Ahtar could hear his own heartbeat.

"Your heart still burns with grief and fury." Kodlak was frowning as if he what he saw, he did not like. "At first it carried you through, but now--" Kodlak thumped the table. "You carry it, and it is a burden becoming too great to be borne. What did you do, in your anger?"

"I killed a lotta people," said Ahtar. "Out in the Reach."

"Men kill in war," said the Harbinger. "And that is not an answer to my question. What did you do?"

Ahtar could hear it, the horror lacing through the man's words; that standoffishness that people got when they learned-- 

"Yeah. Wasn't their warriors, not always." Ahtar took a pained breath. "Sometimes we couldn't get at them. So we found their, ah--" Villages. Barrows. Sometimes caves that they had fled to, or little camps. 

The Harbinger was waiting.

"Noncombatants," said Ahtar, in a near whisper. "Women, children, the injured and the elderly. We knew they weren't warriors. Didn't matter. We killed them. Easier than worrying about what might be creeping up behind us. Burned it all. And--"

The Harbinger's gaze was worse than any remonstrance.

"We killed them because we wanted them dead," Ahtar looked at his hands as though he could read the answer. "Every living thing we found in our path, man or beast. We even uprooted and burnt crops as well as the huts, so no one could make use of 'em later. That's just how it went, in the Reach."

"Whose hand was it, that guided your men?"

Ahtar's head lowered further.

"Who gave that order?" That resonant voice dug deeper, and something in it reached Ahtar. 

He lifted his chin. "Mine." Ahtar forced himself to meet the man's eyes. "No one else should carry the weight of it. Mine alone."

"You took far more lives than honor demanded," said Kodlak White-Mane.

"Even one of 'em might've too many," Ahtar said, bitterly. "I mean, Reachmen gener'lly don't follow Namira. Got their own gods to worship. But we didn't care. It was Reachmen who'd done it, so Reachmen were gonna die."

Kodlak nodded. "There are many here who know what it is to have the heart of a wolf," he said, more gently. "The question is, what makes the man, thereafter?"

"Yeah," said Ahtar, still in that choked voice. "I been trying. I--"

"It is a burden we all must bear," Kodlak murmured. "The call of the beast vying against the will and restraint of the man." He sighed. "When you get to be my age, you'll come to miss the smell of blood." His mouth crooked, ruefully. "You begin to wonder what glories you've missed; what deeds you have foregone. But these days my eyes needs must be on the horizon. Can Shor call home to Sovengarde a man whose soul has become tainted with the soul of an animal?"

Kyne.

"That's all I want," Ahtar said, under his breath, his hands still painfully knottted together. "To go home."

Kodlak White-Mane said: "You are home. If that is your desire."

Ahtar jerked upright in his chair. 

What?!

"You want me to be a Companion?"

"Sometimes the famous come to us." The Harbinger set the pages down on the floor by his feet, carefully. "I'd ask how you were in battle, but in your case..." Kodlak White-Mane laughed, silently. "No need."

"I do alright," agreed Ahtar. "Bit slower these days, I'd guess. But, ah, I didn't exactly come here to join up, I, ah--" Well, he'd considered taking up selllsword work, hadn't he? But the Companions? He was still reeling.

"We'll get to all that." Kodlak gestured at Yorvik's letter. "But it would be remiss of me not to make the offer. These days Jorrvaskr has plenty of room for those with a fire blooming in their hearts. And it is rare to encounter one with such a resilience of spirit."

"I-- ah--." Ahtar gulped. "Don't know what to say."

"I thought the Companions... well. Thought that was all a Nord thing, like Sovengarde." 

Kodlak laughed heartily. "You'll see otherwise, when the others come in. And my predecessor, Askar--"

Ahtar's ears perked up. Askar? That was a Redguard name, wasn't it?

"He found me all the way down in Hammerfell; I was serving as bodyguard for some weak-necked lord. He brought me back here, and I realized... " 

Kodlak gazed around at the stone walls as though he were seeing the red banners for the first time. 

"I realized that I was actually coming home. My own people-- mother, father, grandfather... they were all gone. But I came into a new family of purpose, and gained my Shield-Siblings in the Companions. Now I work to bring honor to both this family as well as the family I lost. That's what matters. Family and Honor. That's what it means to be one of us. Nothing to do with whether or not you were born a Nord."

"I don't even know all that much about the Companions," said Ahtar. "I mean I heard the story, of Ysgramor and his 500; and I know why it's a boat, an' all, but... You all are mercenaries, that much I got." He rubbed at an elbow, where his leathers needed stitching. "What does it even mean to be a Companion?"

"A question that carries more weight than you know," mused Kodlak. "Some of us spend our lives pondering just that. The difference between a noble band of warriors and a ragged bunch of assassins is as thin as a blade's edge."

Ahtar grunted agreement. In his experience it sure didn't take long to fall off that cliff.

"I try to hold us to the right path," said Kodlak. "Living such that your Shield-Siblings would proudly say they fought at your side. Glory in battle, honor in life. Deal with problems head on."

The Harbinger explained then, about how the contracts worked and what kinds of jobs were acceptable; at how Jorrvaskr was kept up; about the training of the whelps. The Skyforge and its special nature; the funerals that were held at it. He even explained-- well, Ahtar already had knowledge of the Companions' werewolf curse, after what'd happened to Vilkas in Castle Dour's jail. Ahtar didn't care, as long as someone didn't volunteer him for that ritual. He didn't want to be part of the Circle, anyhow; he'd had more'n enough of being an officer.

"Alright," said Ahtar. "I think I got a good handle on it. One problem. I may have other responsibilities, that keep me from bein' here. Might be a long time. What then?"

Kodlak had some ideas.

"And no offense, but I had enough time in my life sleepin' in a barracks. Do some of your people get to have their own houses?" Ahtar was curious. Did all share in common, or was it possible to accrue one's own wealth?

Kodlak indicated that at present all of the Companions lived in Jorrvaskr. "Times are bad," said Kodlak. "There is plenty of work to be had, but little that pays well enough to live." He smiled. "But there have been Companions with wives and families and so on; even some who lived far-distant."

Contracts that were sent to Jorrvaskr directly were assigned out and paid by whoever was on that duty, Jorrvaskr's cut coming off the top.

"Currently Aela is in charge of that," said Kodlak. "But she doesn't like administrative work. Soon enough it will be someone else's task."

Contracts picked up by individual Companions were collected by them as well; and it was on each man's honor to send Jorrvaskr's portion along.

"Well," said Ahtar. "Be happy to work freelance if being up north's all right. I have some work to do for Jarl Korir; some friends and kin to see to, and this and that." He coughed. "Nothing to do with the war though, I'm gonna stay out of that."

"What sort of work for the jarl?" Kodlak wanted to know.

"I'm looking for somethin' that belongs up at that great statue of Azura," said Ahtar. "They think having it will draw more of those Dunmer pilgrims in, to spend money at the shops and inn and so on." He thought about it. "Korir also said he wants me to give the Winterhold Guard some arms training," he said. "They've only got each other and whatever the old guys might remember from the Legion."

Ahtar paused. "Well. Anyways. What I came here for. More important than my sorry ass. Had a chance to think about it?"

Because unless the answer to that question was yes, Ahtar was going to be moving on, temptation or no. He could see that Kodlak recognized that, too.

Kodlak folded his arms and looked off into the distance, thinking.

"Here's what's important," said Ahtar. "We need him to stay safe. Well, safe as you can keep a kid and still make him a warrior. Because he's got to be that; Nords won't follow him, else. We all saw what happened to Torygg. For the same reason, he's got to stay in Skyrim, or he'll suffer the same downfall as his father. They'll think he's some foreigner. Most of all," said Ahtar. "Kid's got to make a name. I got a feeling it's going to be some years before any of this can get made known."

Kodlak was frowning.

"Don't look at me," said Ahtar. "Yorvik thought of you all. Man's got more brains than both of us." He sighed. "I did what I could. Wasn't much. Sent money, went down every year or so to see how he was getting on." He touched his face. "Had some interruptions, so it's been some time."

"Does the foster father know?"

"Oh, yeah, he had to be brought in on it. He's kin to Thane Erikur somehow, too. He'n his wife, they didn't have none of their own. She was sickly, an' she's gone on now."

"The Companions have taken in the untried," said Kodlak, slowly. "And we've trained younglings in the past. But always, we have been the ones who choose who will be fit to grace our halls. We don't know this boy."

"Well," said Ahtar. "He's got something of the look of his father, and last time I saw him, well-grown for his age. There's no doubt he's kin to Ulfric, he's got that Stormcloak look to his face. Stubborn, too, but plenty good-natured with it. I watched him for awhile, with the younger children. He was kind to them."

"Has he had arms training?"

"Probably some by now. Whatever the local guardsmen could teach him. I did say that was needful." Ahtar fixed his bootstrap. "How do you normally choose young recruits?"

"One of our own would go out and observe," said Kodlak.

"You could do that," said Ahtar. "I think he'll pass muster. He's a good, big, brave kid."

"So the answer is: conditionally, yes." Kodlak gazed down his empty hall, thinking. "We have the room, and I have been thinking it would be good for us to take in some young recruits these days. Too many of the come-of-age young men and women have been caught up in this war."

"Something else I thought of," said Ahtar.

At first Kodlak said: absolutely not. But at length he accepted the reason that Ahtar had given.

"As for yourself," said Kodlak. "The doors of Jorrvaskr stand open to you. Come back to me when you have finished this task."

"I will," Ahtar promised. "Might not be able to say yes, but I'll come back."

"What do you think we are, common mercenaries? Waste of my time, doing escort duty." Vilkas found his gauntlets and put them back on; resettled his sword. "Unless this is payback, from that time I got a little--" He looked displeased.

"Not because you owe me," Ahtar said. "I already said, back when, Companions didn't owe me shit and you didn't either. Least I could do, after I couldn't get you out of jail right away. You think I'm the kinda man, says one thing then and another thing now?"

Vilkas started muttering.

Ahtar cut him off: "Do I look like some fatass merchant, can't find my dick, needs someone to lead me by the hand down the road?" He spit. "No. I need a Companion who's a skald; and one who knows his business well enough to check over a potential recruit. That part'll be on you."

Vilkas looked more tempted, but scuffed his foot to show that he was still pissy about it. "What's Kodlak say?"

"Kodlak's gonna say: you're the only Companion he's got who can do it. Get your shit and meet me back here in a quarter hour."

Vilkas looked back over his shoulder: "Why do you need a skald?"

Ahtar laughed. "Because you're gonna be putting it down in a history. If'n we get the luck."

"Kyne!" Ahtar exclaimed, grabbing at an amulet that hadn't been there for a long, long time.

Vilkas made a swift gesture of reverence at the sky. "Well, there's your portent!" 

Ahtar looked over at him, because the Companion's attitude had changed dramatically.

Vilkas' face remained tipped up to the sky, in awed reverence. "If the gods are smiling on us, we're on the right road for certain." He began reciting to himself under his breath, fixing a new verse into memory.

"How much of this do you wanna know about ahead of time?" asked Ahtar, when they stopped for a short break.

"All of it," said Vilkas.

"Alright," said Ahtar. "Secrets like this tend to get out, so let's hope this one don't. Swear on your honor as a Companion that you will say nothing."

Vilkas did so, not without more muttering.

Ahtar chose to overlook it. "So," he said. "I got adopted when I was a kid, by this Legion general who was operating out of Hammerfell. He happened to overrun one of the Aldmeri positions and, well--" he spread his hands. "Elves had some prisoners. One of 'em was me. So the General got five more kids that day."

Vilkas nodded. "The fall of Rihad. I know the story. Pretty good one. That was you, huh?"

"Fall of what now?" Ahtar asked, curious. He'd never heard that word before. Sounded foreign.

"Rihad."

The word went in and out of Ahtar's ears like sand falling through his hands. 

He shook his head. "General was a good man, gave me his name and all, so I'm one of the Decianii. These days the family'd rather I not show it off, but that's on me."

Vilkas grunted.

"Apparently being a murderin' lunatic living like a wild man in the Reach looks bad on the rest of them," said Ahtar. "Anyways, before all that. The General had some Nord nobles he was training up to be officers. Estavan Crown-of-Stars was one of them."

"I know that name," Vilkas said.

"Yeah. We was together." Ahtar made a gesture.

Vilkas had been watching his face. "Family didn't like that, either?" he guessed.

"Not a whole lot. But the General looked out for us," said Ahtar. "So there wasn't any trouble in the Legion." He sighed. "Problem was, there wasn't a whole lot of work for the Legion. Peacetime. Guess the General'd done too good a job. I mean, I was a tribune on paper, but the best command I ever got was as a captain. And 'Stavan was watching what all was going on in Skyrim and getting unhappy about it. So--" he spread his hands.

"He came home, and took you with him." Vilkas rubbed his chin. "That would've been what, 190? There's a couple poems about him leaving the Legion and reconciling with Ulfric and joining his warband."

"Nah. 184. Ulfric was out in the Reach four, maybe five times that decade," Ahtar corrected. "It's just that kind of a shithole place. And we stayed in the Legion throughout. Half of Ulfric's soldiers in the Reach came from the 17th right up till near the end; we were all on... uh. Extended leave." Ahtar grinned. "You know. Like Hammerfell convalescents."

Plausible deniability.

"Until the elves got involved," Vilkas said.

"Yeah once ol' Titus Mede got his balls slapped again by the Thalmor about that Talos-in-Markarth business, that was it for the Legion in the Reach," said Ahtar. "Where I was goin' with it was this-- me and 'Stavan kept having this argument about whether we should be married."

Vilkas looked skyward, as if to announce that he himself would never have such concerns. He was such a grumpy fuckin' bastard, probably not.

"You were in Skyrim," Vilkas pointed out, just to be snotty. "Nothing to stop you. So what was the problem?"

"The problem was that we was already married," said Ahtar. "We'd snuck off one time and got ourselves to Riften, bit of a story there. The argument was about whether we should stay married, because 'Stavan had worked himself back to thinking he wanted to go try for the High Kingdom. And that meant--"

Vilkas nodded. He got it. Kings don't marry for love, not even in Skyrim. Land, wealth, influence, and heirs.

"Well," said Ahtar. "One of the problems was heirs, and we argued a lot about that, till he got this friend of ours-- nice girl, wouldn't hardly know she was Thane Erikur's sister-- anyways, Gilfre agreed she'd be the mother, so long as she didn't have to be responsible for 'em."

Vilkas said, "I'm no lawthane, but if the two of you were married, doesn't that mean..."

"We had a lawthane fix it all up," said Ahtar. "If you're married you can bring in somebody else to sire or bear the kids, if'n you're not capable or... well. In our situation. So they're legitimate, signed and sealed and everything."

"Huh. So this is the boy we're going to go get?" Vilkas asked.

"The last of the blood of the High Kings of Skyrim," Ahtar acknowledged. "Be careful sparring him."

Ahtar had hoped that the rest of the walk would be accomplished in silence but Vilkas had a lot of questions.

"How is it nobody knew about these children?" he asked. "Wasn't anyone watching you?"

Ahtar sighed. "They went to a kinsman of Gilfre's pretty quick. And you know, 'Stavan didn't have any interest, so we didn't go see them much. Might not've been noticed even if we had. Rorikstead was one of our supply depots in those days. Busy place."

Vilkas nodded. "Who was the lawthane?"

"She's jarl of Hjaalmarch, now. Good luck getting her to answer questions." Sitting jarls, well, there were rules. Couldn't just haul them in for questioning in front of a moot.

"What was he like?" Vilkas wanted to know.

Ahtar snorted. "'Stavan? Quarrelsome. You'd be in that snowbank by now, all these fuckin' questions."

"Were you sorry he didn't want to stay married to you?"

Ahtar stopped dead and rounded on him. 

Vilkas put his hands up and took a half-step sideways; signalling that he wasn't going to avoid a fight, but he hadn't planned to start one.

Ahtar shoved his hood back, shook his hair back into order and put it back up. He fixed his gloves and brushed some of the snow off his cloak. 

When he was cool enough he said: "Other way 'round. I knew what his responsibilities were gonna have to be and I told him so. He never, ever wanted to listen. You put that in one a your verses or some shit, and I hear it, my chair's gonna have a wolfskin rug for a pillow, and the only songs you're gonna get to hear is the sound of my farts. Got it?"

"I got it," said Vilkas.

"Not much of a place," Vilkas commented. "They call this a town? Barely a village."

"Used to be bigger back in the day," said Ahtar, screening his eyes to look down the valley. "Things seem to be going well, though. Farms look good. People're out working."

He looked back at a couple of ruins that looked kind of foreboding-- Forsworn loved places like those-- and at the dragon-mound he could see cresting the hill next to theirs.

"See that?" he pointed. "Dragons come out of those. That's what the Dovahkiin says."

"Damn," said Vilkas. "I hope not. I've seen dozens of those things. All over Skyrim." He eyed it, nervously. "Did you know it was here?"

"Nope." Ahtar looked around. "Never been up on this hill before. Come on. Starting to lose the light."

Vilkas hung back a bit, as instructed.

"Hey, kid. Been awhile." Ahtar blinked. "What the hell--"

"-- happened to your face?" asked Erik. He touched the red marks crossing his own nose. "Sabrecat came down out of the hills a couple of months ago, when we were down to just two guardsman. So I grabbed the wood axe and--"

"Kyne, kid," said Ahtar. "You're lucky it didn't take your face clean off." And when the fuck did you get whiskers?

"It was already mostly dead. I just got too close too soon. What happened to you? I thought you weren't ever coming back. Pa said when the money stopped--"

"Long story. Had to do with that nonsense that happened up in Solitude. And this--" Ahtar touched his cheek. "Little decoration I got from the Forsworn. Laid me up a good couple years. Stay away from the Reach."

Erik nodded. "I wondered why you had new armor."

"Working for Jarl Korir." Ahtar made it sound as dull as hauling water. "Your pa around?"

"Up at the tavern counter," said Erik. "Say, I was wondering if you would talk to him about--"

Just about then, Vilkas came walking up closer and Erik's eyes widened as he caught sight of the wolf armor.

"Are you an adventurer?" he demanded.

"In a manner of speaking." Vilkas was amused. "I'm a Companion. What do you do here?"

"You're looking at it," said Erik ruefully. "Checking the last of the leeks and cabbages that we grow under winter cover. Looks like it's time to bring them in. Is it true the Companions brought down a dragon? Jouane was saying that you all did, but Pa said it was likely just loose talk, because the only dragon in Whiterun Hold was killed by the Dovahkiin and--"

Ahtar stepped off the side to covertly watch the boy. Vilkas launched into one of his stories and Erik listened, rapt, ignoring both his work and the rising wind.

He'd grown well and looked fair to grow some more, his hands overlarge for his wrists. His trousers looked new; even so, the bottom hem was brushing the tops of his boots.

Mralki drew his breath in, sharply. "Gods, man. I thought you were dead!"

"Easy," said Ahtar, as soothingly as he could. "Had to leave Haafingar on account of all the problems. Sorry I wasn't able to send word."

Mralki nodded, abruptly. He turned back to his taps and, for something to distract himself, drew a couple of pints of ale.

"We wondered," he said. "Heard there was a bounty."

"Stormcloak and Imperial Legion both. Not sure how I managed that."

Despite his worry, Mralki managed to smirk. "Nothing's changed with you, Sulla." He tapped his mug against Ahtar's and drank, as if he needed it.

Ahtar drank his own, slowly. It was good ale, lighter than Yorvik's had been, and heavily bittered with hops. Mralki was talking, about how the inn had been doing; about the farm and Erik, and how many times this year he'd had to buy the boy shoes...

This was going to be harder than Ahtar thought.

"Thanks," he said, shoving the empty mug back to Mralki. "No, it's all right, I don't need to eat just yet."

He leaned forward. "You have to know why I'm here," he said. 

"I knew this day would come," said Mralki, his eyes closed. "It's too soon, Sulla! The boy's too young."

"He's sixteen next month. So far's the Legion's concerned, that marks the man. It's the day I swore," said Ahtar. Thank Kyne he'd had the General standing beside him, who knew what would have happened to him else.

"I know," said Mralki, hoarsely. "Please! He's a good lad. Just-- just until he's fully grown. He's all I've got."

Ahtar did his best to explain, though it felt like he was tearing the heart out of the man.

"I hear you," Mralki said, at last. "You can't deny him his heritage, I just--"

"Rorikstead's not far from Whiterun," Ahtar said. "Was the best I could do. And you've given him all that you could. He's just-- it's just--" Ahtar stopped and swallowed. "I wish I could keep him by me," he said. "I could teach him, maybe. But that damn bounty, and everything else. It's just too dangerous. Better this way. They'll have him out hunting bear and wolf... do it proper, maybe, rather than charging up on some damn sabrecat."

"It damn near killed me, when they brought him in that day," Mralki whispered. "He was so pale, and all the blood... it was just scratches, and the shock of it, thankfully. He's been a little more cautious since, thank Talos." He shook his head. "My greatest fear was that he'd go off as a soldier, and end up like those poor children up north on Whiterun Plain."

Ahtar had written to warn Mralki about what had happened to Jala's brother Thadric; to his girl Fura Morrard; to all the other luckless young people who'd set out under the Legion banner from Solitude, with little training and no support. Do not let Erik go off to the Legion, Ahtar'd warned. It's not the same Legion. 

"And now he won't," said Ahtar. "The Companions're gonna stay out of the war entirely. They won't even do sellsword work if'n they suspect it's going towards the war effort."

Mralki nodded.

The door to the inn opened.

"Ah, there they are now," said Ahtar. "Try an' look surprised."

"Well?" Ahtar demanded, the next day. It had snowed again and it was even colder in the wind.

Vilkas said: "I watched him work. He was set to gather in the last of the greenstuff and he did that-- but then he went and foddered the neighbor's pigs for her, and helped her get eggs. While we were in the inn, he got the mugs and empty bottles from the tables and brought them up. I asked him, and he said he didn't work for his father at all-- he works for Rorik, I guess-- just it was work needed done."

Ahtar nodded. "That important?"

"He has a keen eye and a kind heart," said Vilkas. "And he's not lazy."

"How is he at the fighting?" Ahtar asked, anxious.

Vilkas made a throwaway gesture, as if that wasn't really important. "He'll get better."

"So what are you thinking?" Ahtar's voice went sharp.

Vilkas laughed. "I saw a courier come through this morning. I've already sent off for the armor." He cleared his throat. "I was thinking you'd talked the Harbinger into doing something rash, but now I think you're right. The wolf armor'll stave off most of the recruiters and rabble. Think we'll do that for all the young ones."

"Alright," said Ahtar. He glanced up in the direction of the wind, but saw nothing but a hundred miles of swirling white. "Freezing my balls off," he said, abruptly. "I'm going in."

They spent the next four days idling about the inn and walking the hills, sparring and talking to the guardsmen. Ahtar gave them all a lesson in how to pin down and kill a dragon, with much emphasis on keeping the damned thing away from Rorikstead's wooden buildings.

Eventually a cart showed up with the fabled wolf armor and Ahtar and Vilkas spent a good half-day fitting it to Erik and convincing him to leave the extra length on the straps alone.

Another long supper, sitting around the inn, with stories told and Mralki hovering nearby.

"All right," said Ahtar. "This is it, the first day of your adventure."

"Still keen?" asked Vilkas.

"Of course! I can't wait to get underway--" Erik bounced on his heels, clearly eager to be off.

"Steady there," Vilkas cautioned. "We've got to talk a little, first."

"I'm all ears," said Erik, cheerfully.

"Ah," said Ahtar. "What do you know about, ah. Your history?" 

"Well," said Erik. "I was born and raised right here in Rorikstead. My father was a soldier. He fought in the great war and when it was over, he retired here to raise a family. My mother passed away when I was just a babe, so he did his best to raise me on his own. I helped out in the inn when I was small, but when I came of age to do a man's work, I went to go work for Rorik to bring in some extra septims. Farm work, mostly. And I trained a little with the guardsmen if we had time." He squinted at Ahtar. "Why?"

"Most a that's true," Ahtar agreed. "You weren't born in town here, though. Used to be a little Legion camp about a mile that way--" he pointed. "Your ma was a kind lady, but sickly, and she couldn't have a child of her own. She already had your sister with her, so when she heard about you, she asked if she could take you in. Your father wasn't as keen at first, to have a weanling and a newborn... but then he saw you. Then he went quiet. An' the next thing he asked me was: 'Can you get me a few more milch goats?'"

"Oh," said Erik. 

"He didn't tell you?" Ahtar questioned. "That you weren't born to him and your mother?"

"He said something once," said Erik. "So I asked questions, but when I did, he said it was dangerous for me to know." His face had tightened a bit. "It was when he caught me breaking into the chest with his old Legion armor."

"Do you know what legion?" Ahtar asked.

Erik looked indignant. "The 17th, of course!"

Ahtar laughed. "You got brought up right," he said. "So how much do you want to hear? Vilkas tells me you've got enough brains to keep your mouth shut. I can tell you all of it. Your father's right, that knowledge is dangerous. Or I could tell you--" he shrugged. "Some. You'd still have to be cautious, though."

Vilkas, of course, had to chime in: "If he doesn't know the full truth of things, how's he going to guard against the dangers, hah?"

"I'll tell you as we go," said Ahtar. "Since it's a long road to Whiterun and all. But I'll warn you, it's not the most pleasant story. We weren't always the nicest of people." He checked the draw of his sword and resheathed it. "Heard from your sister lately?"

"Not for about three months," said Erik, puzzled. "We got a letter this fall, said she was doing fine in High Rock. She's at school. That's where Da's money is going, and some of mine." He patted his cuirass with his armored hand, still in awe. "I wanted to be saving up for my armor, but look at this!"

"Wait a moment," said Erik, miles and miles down the road. "If you were married to my father, and it was all done like you said, doesn't that mean you're my father, too?"

Ahtar turned his face away.

"Yeah. Guess you've got that right, kid. Never thought about it." He slid his backpack off his shoulders and set it down, beginning to dig around in it. "Go ahead with Vilkas for a bit. I got to fix this or my back'll be making me crazy. I'll catch up."

Erik hesitated, then walked off up the hill after Vilkas. 

Ahtar waited until he was out of sight over the rise. Then he covered his face with his hands.

Kyne.

What had he done? What had he lost?

It wasn't safe. It wasn't safe, his mind whispered. Isn't that what you say? You were a coward.

I couldn't risk it, Ahtar said into his hands, silently. 'Stavan, do you hear? I couldn't risk it!

He could almost hear it, that scornful voice: you made him a farmer. A farmer! What's his sister doing, mopping floors in High Rock?

The anger braced him enough to stand up. He wiped his face with a handful of snow, wincing. 

Well, shit. He's still alive. And so am I.

Ahtar slipped the pack back on and lengthened his stride to catch up.

"Why are we stopping?"

"Take a look right there," said Ahtar. "That's the reason for this war."

Erik looked at the statute of Talos; at the lone priest preaching to no one. "I'm not sure I see the point," he said, skeptically.

"I got no real opinion," said Ahtar. "Other than I don't like getting told my business by anyone, much less some elf. Talos might have been the Legion's god, but my family always worshiped Kyne. Well. Kynareth. One of my brothers went to be her priest. See there? This is Kyne's city." He pointed to the hawk's shape, rising over the Skyforge.

"Is there a difference?" Erik wanted to know. "Between Kynareth and Kyne?"

"The priests say there is, and there isn't. Beyond my understanding." Ahtar shrugged. "It ain't important. Ulfric could explain it all to you better than I could. Kyne, Talos... Greybeards trained him, so he knows his stuff. The gods aren't that close to me."

"Am I going to meet Ulfric Stormcloak?" Erik looked worshipful; enthralled. Hadn't even met the bastard yet.

"Sure," said Ahtar. "But it's gonna have to wait a while, maybe even a few years. We got to get him used to the idea of you, first."

"I have to get used to the idea of being a Stormcloak," said Erik, under his breath.

"Yeah, kid," said Ahtar, his eyes still on the Talos shrine. "Pretty sure all of us are gonna have to."

"Well met, whelp." said Vignar Gray-Mane. "Vilkas tells me that you might be a pup for now, but in time your deeds will bring honor and glory to Jorrvaskr. That so?"

"It is!" Erik bounded up the steps to clasp the older man's arm. Vignar looked startled for a second, and then relented.

"Good. Listen to Vilkas when Vilkas is in a good mood; and to Skjor when Skjor's in a bad one. Myself, I'm retired, but always willing to lend an ear to anyone who needs it. Tilma will take care of any needs you might have, get your linen sorted out and so on. I assume you've come up here with not much?"

"Vilkas told me to leave most of my things. He said I might need them on visits," said Erik. He looked a bit apprehensive. "I... can visit home, can't I?"

Vignar chuckled. "You're not in the Legion, whelp. Jorrvaskr's no cage. Visit home as you please. Come! We'll go inside to meet the others."

Vignar Gray-Mane stood up at the feast and gave a nice little speech, about the future of the Companions. Ahtar got the feeling that the others had been forewarned, because instead of grumbling there were nods and exclamations. 

Erik was seated to one side of four empty chairs, which all understood would be for the new whelps.

He was still looking around himself in pure delight, gawping at the banners and the relics. 

Vilkas wondered where Aela was, and Vignar explained-- she was off fetching a likely prospect she'd observed some time ago. A farmgirl who'd been attempting her own weapons-practice out in her yard, using firewood and stones and staves. So Erik wouldn't be the lone whelp for long.

When the meal was done, Vignar took them both out to the yard, to show off the pells and archery targets and practice dummies.

Ahtar indicated the shovel and a couple of brooms he saw ranked at the edge of the overhang. "Whelps do the chores?" he asked.

Vignar said: "We all do, in turn. Tilma keeps the place clean and does most of the cooking, but we can't expect her to do the heavy work."

After a few more unnecessary minutes explaining-- surely the boy knew what a sauna was, and could handle restocking a woodpile-- Vignar said it was time for them to go downstairs and meet with the Harbinger.

Ahtar slowed his steps as they came down the long hall, letting Erik take the lead. The boy moved forward like a hesitant deer, but he kept moving forward. Ahtar understood. He too could feel the weight of history pressing down upon his shoulders, testing his worthiness.

He had no doubts about the boy, at least. Himself, well-- that was another matter, wasn't it?

Ahtar moved up, to overhear their conversation.

"Welcome! Vilkas here was regaling me with tales of your accomplishments!"

Erik said: "What? I mean, I haven't got any accomplishments. To speak of. Unless you mean getting in the turnips before they rotted after the back quarter flooded."

Vilkas rubbed his fingers across his own nose.

"Oh, that," said Erik, flushing. "That was just me being foolish. I probably should have let the guards handle it. It was just a sabrecat," he told Kodlak. "It had an arrow already stuck in its flank that was all infected too. Guards thought that's why it was hanging around town picking off our ducks and chickens. They'd been trying to catch it for awhile with no success, so when I came up on it--"

"Tell him what you hit it with," Vilkas suggested.

"Oh, my firewood axe," said Erik. I was all the way down by the smokehouse cutting up the last of the tinder Lemkil brought down."

"Usually we use polearms for sabrecats," Vilkas said. "Or by preference bows, from a far distance. You have courage."

"My pa said that kind of courage is close-kin to foolishness," Erik said. "I got the wound-fever from the claws and I was in bed a week! Didn't do me any harm in the end, though."

"Come here," directed Kodlak. "I want to take a look at you. Hm, yes. Courage and an eagerness to learn. How's your arm?"

Erik looked at Vilkas, who didn't say anything. 

"Not so good, I don't think," Erik said. "We sparred a bit, but I couldn't get through his guard. I've practiced a bit, on my own. But I think I need a lot more training."

"That's the spirit. Vilkas will get you started on that, in the morning."

"One day your body will catch up to your spirit, boy. In the meantime, don't stint your training. Listen to Aela and Vilkas, and trust your instincts."

"Yes, sir."

Kodlak looked up at them, more severely. "Every man in the Companions is his own; every woman, her own. There are no masters here and no officers. I am the Harbinger because I speak to offer guidance, but the Companions have no leader. We are a warband of equals; and even as a whelp you stand as a man among us. Remember that."

"Yes, ah--" Erik fumbled. "Kodlak."

"Good," said the Harbinger. "Vilkas will show you to your sleeping quarters. In the morning you will train in armor; and then he will show you the baths and get you acclimated to town. Do you have other clothing?"

"Just farm clothes. My father made me bring 'em."

"That will do for now. Welcome to the Companions."

"I can't believe this is really happening," said Erik. "This is the best day of my life." He seemed to recognize that he he was just a bit overcome by the mead. Ahtar watched him recork the bottle and carefully set it aside.

Vignar told me that I had to choose an epithet, since there's too many Erik's in Skyrim," he said. "So I told him, I don't have any great deeds to my name yet. They'd have to call me Erik Green-Thumb or Erik Hoe-Pusher..." He sighed. "Skjor started laughing at me and then Vignar and Farkas did too."

"You'll ah-- think of something, kid," said Ahtar, who'd put his hand up to stifle his own amusement. "Or someone else will. You'll have an ekename in no time."

"Huh," said Erik.

He glanced up at Ahtar, and Ahtar startled, because there it was, just that glint of his father's old mischief. "Say. Is that really my name? Erik?"

"It is. No doubt there. I was there when you got it." Ahtar grinned. "Too bad you're named after an asshole. Wait till you meet your Uncle Erikur."

"I'm not sure I want to meet him," said Erik, immediately.

"Sure you do," Ahtar said. "He might be a bastard but he owns half of Haafingar. Be kind of handy when the time comes." 

Erik snorted.

One of the other young Companions-- Ahtar was having trouble getting them all straight-- came up and tugged at Erik's arm. "Torvar's wanting to play dice in the war-room," she said. "Come on!"

"I'll be right down!" said Erik, eagerly. She scampered off.

"Don't let them take all your money," said Ahtar, amused.

Ahtar hesitated.

He had already said his goodbyes, and he shouldn't linger. He had other messages to deliver, and a fortress surrounded-by-water to find; and a couple of farmers to go threaten, for some fucking reason he couldn't follow. Whatever. It was Companion's business. Ahtar wasn't looking forward to that part of it. Better than what he'd had to do in the Legion, or in the Haafingar Guard. So he could stomach it.

His hand made a quick gesture; the one Vilkas had made at Kyne's portent; the same one Ahtar's brother had taught him before despairing of him. 

Kyne's blessing on the road, he willed. Be safe.

That was all that Ahtar could do for Erik. There was no more. And so he left.


	12. Cyrelian: Presence of the Enemy (Winterhold, Frostfall 4e202 to Morning Star 4e203)

At first I did not know where I was.

The words of a religious service echoed about me, maddeningly familiar. Was this some rite I knew?

There was a cantor-- a human lady with a heavy northcoast accent-- but the cadence of her reciting-tone rendered her phrases incomprehensible. This tongue-song was wholly foreign to me; I could barely recognize her words as Cyrodiilic.

How was it that I could anticipate each response?

Each phrase leaped unbidden to mind, like the quick flash of minnows darting through clear water.

Where did this knowledge come from?

My own thoughts were sluggish and honey-thick, as if I were yet dreaming. Word for word, my lips could frame each versicle's response, though I stumbled over the timing. No, she was not finished; that was merely the shift to the flexa; there was going to be another verse before the change to the mediant. Four more words for the termination and we were on to the next--

What music was this?

I struggled to comprehend. 

I knew, instinctively, that I had never heard this rite before. I knew that this rite was wrong. Yet I knew by rote each and every syllable of the proper response. 

Syllables and words that were almost comforting, despite the uneasy distaste I felt; I had felt this unease before. Familiar words that I had forced myself to review over and over again, no matter that they made me feel uncomfortable. 

Words that were a lie.

Easy words to follow. 

As easy to review as the short paragraphs laid out in a service manual.

In the chapter entitled: “Regarding Heresy.”

This was a Talos rite!

My eyes snapped open.

I was in the presence of the enemy.

“Don’t,” came a Nord-accented, feminine voice. The same voice? 

I gasped. I was too dry to scream.

“Don’t try to get up. You’re still very weak. Here.” The wet rim of a wooden cup pressed just below my mouth as my head was steadied. Was it a drug? Was it a poison? 

My training drummed in my ears: Turn your face away. Do not accept it. You do not know what it might be-- something to sap your will; something to eat through your flesh. My arms and legs ached from the rack; from the...

I was fading down to darkness again.

As soon as the liquid touched my lips I sucked greedily at it, drinking in great noisy gulps. I was dying of thirst. It was not nearly sufficient. I choked and coughed. The cup was taken away, and I was chided for my haste.

A breath or two-- I had control of myself now; I would not--

When it was brought back to me, I succumbed again, trying desperately to grasp it. I could not move my hands. They were bound.

Laughter, peals of it. 

Who were these people? 

What kind of terrible people allow their small child into a prison-chamber?

“Look at this, Yllga. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open yesterday. Could you hand me that towel?” Something wet, scrubbing at my cheek.

And-- blackness.

“Bring that over and give it to him right now-- I don’t wish to bring him up for too long.” That was an Altmer voice. I had been warned of these people-- the tainted ones; recusants and unbelievers; the corruptors-of-blood; the betrayers who live to infiltrate the Aldmeri and-- he had the uniform. But I knew. A lie. A trick. The misbelievers steal these things, to lull us into complaisance.

Once more I refused.

The Altmer made an exasperated noise and got up off the carpet to his feet. "Give it here." 

A firmer hand grasped my jaw.

“Open,” I was commanded, and I did, once the merciless thumb jabbed into the nerve plexus. Something cool and tangy was dolloped into my mouth. 

I should have refused. Food is the body’s strength and when one is wholly trapped, it is time to let the body fail. It is one's duty to evade questioning by any means. I should not cooperate with this, this torment that they meant to do to me. I must try to get up. I must seek the escape; there, I could see it. A door. I strained to get up, but my legs were leaden, and my left wrist affixed. I could not get the necessary leverage--

"If you do not eat, you will die," the mer said, annoyed. 

Good. 

Just as well, if it meant there could be no more questions. Strong fingers took hold of my chin and pressed down, painfully. More of the thick stuff went into me. I tried to turn my head, and was prevented. 

“Swallow,” directed the voice, and I could not do otherwise. “Open your eyes again. Look at me. I want to know how you managed to bring yourself out of stasis.”

I did not wish to do as the voice said. 

I tried to rid myself of the paste in my mouth; but had to gulp it some more of it down rather than choke. I shook my head wildly and coughed to clear my mouth, and spat. Now that it had been commanded that my eyes open, I kept them tightly shut. 

Apparently I was a source of great amusement-- the child again-- but not to the voice; I heard him muttering in disgust. 

The Altmer retreated: “If he’s strong enough to fight me like this, he’s probably strong enough to be left out of stasis. I’ll let you take over feeding him. He’s swallowing fairly well now. Thick liquids are better than thin; but no matter what make certain that he’s fully awake before you put anything into his mouth.” 

And, more attenuated-- “What _is_ this substance; I’m covered with it. Will it soak out in the wash? I shall have to speak with Suivari.”

The Nord woman again, rueful: “You really do make a mess, don’t you? Here.” The wet cloth again, swabbing me down.

“That won’t do any good, Mama-- it’s all over the bed.”

“So it is,” said the lady, making a few futile swipes at the pillow. “I think I’ll try putting some honey in it next time. Waste of good skyrr, is what this is.”

“He’s just like a big baby, isn’t he?” The bed heaved, as though some large animal had jumped onto it. A mammoth. Or a half-ton sabrecat.

“Yllga! Leave the poor man alone, he needs to rest. Come. I’ll let you help me pour out the next batch of skyrr.”

“Hello!”

My eyes slitted open. My head hurt. My mouth was impossibly dry. I was thirsty.

I was being forcibly greeted by a small brown-eyed child.

“This is Mathilde,” I was told. A doll was thumped up and down next to my face. “She’s Breton,” I was told, a confidence of deathly import. The doll, I noted, also had brown eyes. And a mule’s ridiculous lop ears. I wondered whether it were some sort of social commentary.

I was much too dizzy and sick for this. My right arm refused to move. With great effort I heaved myself onto that side, the world wavering and roiling as if I were on some hellish voyage. I keened and panted in terror until the vertigo released me.

The woman came in and insisted on administering more of the nasty flavorless paste to me. I faded back into fitful slumber. At some point even the stuffed-lump Mathilde must have gotten bored with me, for she was gone. I could hear the odd little whistle of the child's breath, as she played at make-believe with her doll. 

\--

When I woke again, I could hear the child. She sounded like she had a bad catarrh. She trundled about the room rather than running back and forth underfoot as a child that age ought to. With her slow and careful movements, she was five years old going on three hundred and seventy.

From what little I could see from my vantage, this was most definitely not a prison or a place of interrogation. Pelts and carpets on the floor. Pelts under me. I could smell bread baking. And, holy sweet Mara, beef stew. A wholesome place, where food was cooked, and washing being done--

Relieved, I tried to sit up, and was at once restrained by the bond about my... this time it was my left wrist. 

Fear washed through me. No! My first impressions had been correct; this place was all wrong. I was a prisoner! I needed to keep fighting.

I struggled and floundered before flopping backwards again.

The dizziness claimed me, and then the black fatigue.

An hour later? Days later? 

I opened my eyes again to that serious little face.

“My papa says that you’re a warning against offering hospitality." The child nodded, with a degree of gravitas that a new-minted Justiciar could only dream of mustering. “He said always ask more questions before you make binding promises.”

Experimentally, I tugged my left wrist.

The binding was solid leather and had little slack. I was caught. The buckle was on the side where I could not readily reach it. It was too stiff for my weakened fingers. There was no hope for it; I was bound fast. There was no way that I was going to be able to get free.

I gave it my best efforts.

“Talos wept, what a pain in my tail you are,” said the Nord lady, sometime later. “Yllga? Why did you not call out for me, child? Agh. You! How did you get your legs off the bed?”

After some struggling and heaving, she got me back up on the bed, and straightened my limbs back into the position in which she felt they belonged. She stood still a moment, panting and holding her belly.

“You son of a boot,” she said, when she saw me watching her. “You were awake? You could have helped!” She leaned down next to my ear, and whispered “Next time I’ll let you hang there till your arms go black and dead and there's nothing to be done for it but wait for the maggots to come.”

“Oooh,” said the child, impressed at her severity.

But a lady who said something like that in all earnesty would not be wasting further time on me. Would she? Certainly she would not be chafing at my hand to get its circulation to come back up. Nor would she take the time to tuck the furs around me, and to re-settle the pillow under my head for my better comfort.

Despite all this tender care I had the distinct sense that this was not the first time that I had annoyed her.

Why couldn't I keep my eyes open? 

I had no idea what day this was.

This was worrisome.

I slept.

At long last these people forced a reaction out of me; I emitted an awful groan. Skyrr. Again.

Would this torture never cease?

“Think I’ll try broth next,” said the woman, judiciously. “Skyrr takes some getting used to.”

Were they drugging my food? It didn't matter; the woman didn't let me refuse, and I was hardly awake long enough to protest.

Moments? Hours?

My back and legs ached terribly.

I had been here some while. It was long past time that I set myself free. I sought for the buckle, and...

It was too much effort, of a sudden. I needed to shepherd my strength. Carefully I eased myself back so as not to trigger the maddening, horrible disorientation and dizziness. I shut my eyes for just a few moments.

Or days.

It could have been weeks.

I was out again.

I had to piss.

This was going to be close. 

I managed to get fold my hand enough to slip it halfway out of the bind and pulled frantically at the buckle-strap. Loosened just in time, and thankfully there was the necessity-bucket kept tucked beneath the bed, it was right there...

“How did he do this?” said a querulous new voice. 

Male, irritated. An odd accent. 

I attempted to get a glimpse through my eyelashes.

I didn’t think it was a human voice.

Dunmer? 

“At least he didn’t make a mess,” said a heartier male voice. Nord, amused. 

He crouched down to have a look.

“No point in doing that strap up again, it seems. It just upsets him. Leave it for now.” That was a command.

“If you’re convinced he’s not going to get out into the cattle pen again and freeze half to death,” said the Dunmer, dubious.

“I’ll talk to him,” promised the Nord. 

Together they heaved me back up onto the bed, carelessly tossing the furs back over me.

The ropes of the bed creaked in protest as the Nord sat down beside me. His warmth felt good. Soothing. A broad hand patted my cheek. “By order of the jarl,” the man said. “No leaving this bed until that elf wizard says you can. Use the bell. Understand?” 

I realized that there was indeed a bell, that was the extra weight I had felt at my left wrist, beyond the restriction of the strap.

He wasn’t going to leave, I realized. Not until I opened my eyes and looked at him. 

When I did, his hand stayed put, fingertips cupping my cheek. The room was dim, but the light from the fire limned his beard and hair; darkest copper-red, lit with rose-gold. Beautiful. And that face--

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I promised immediately, and was treated to a broad smile. Oh, that was unnecessary. 

I was already in trouble.

“Good,” he said. “Stop making such a fuss. Nobody here is going to hurt you. And you’re making a great deal of work for Seloth and Thaena.”

He took my hand and examined where the leather had scuffed up my wrist. “I’ll leave this off,” he said, consideringly. “But I need your word that you won’t try to go outside. In this weather, that’s certain death.”

I agreed, happily, and let my hand slide into his. I looked up at him. “Stay,” I urged.

He laughed merrily and pulled the fur blankets over me. And continued to laugh at me as he walked away.

“Seloth?” he called, still chuckling. “You’re not going to believe this...”

“I’m hungry,” I said immediately.

“Keep your shirt on,” advised Thaena. She brought over a small bowl. “This is just the broth,” she said. “We can’t give you the meat and vegetables until they stew down a little more and I can mash them up. It will be an hour or so.”

I drank it off immediately. “Is there more?” I demanded. "Why do I have to eat this thin stuff? Can't I have bread, or meat?"

There was a delicious thick potage on the table, and wedges of aged cheese, the very sight of which made my mouth weep. I would kill for one of those crisp apples, bursting tart over my tongue...

“There’s bread,” she said. “Let me bring you some.” She took my empty bowl and left the room. 

Would it be possible for me to get myself some of that stew? I could hear the broth bubbling gently in its kettle, and the hearth did not look all that far away. Maybe if I refilled the serving-bowl, Thaena would not notice that I had depleted it? I was far too dizzy even to attempt to stand... but perhaps I could crawl? 

Thaena came back in while I was still parsing the distances.

I blinked at her. 

Oh. She had taken the bowl away. It would have been a futile effort nonetheless.

“Here,” she said, giving it back to me; it was bread sopped with broth, which should have been revolting.

It was ambrosia. 

I wolfed it all down before she even had a chance to turn away.

“Does it have to be all wet with this stuff?” I asked. “Could I have the rest of the loaf?” And-- “Is there any ham, maybe? Or cured fish? I want some of that stew--”

Thaena scowled at me. 

“You’re supposed to be taking liquids,” she said, severely. “That’s what he said. And I’m not going to bring that Thalmor down on us because you talked me out of doing as I’ve been told. I’ll get you some more skyrr.”

I groaned in protest.

“With honey,” she added. “And if you’re good, maybe some watered mead.”

Exceedingly watered mead, but I resolved to refrain from further complaint. As long as it wasn't skyrr.

When she came back, I asked: “So how is it that Thalmor give orders here?” I indicated the large shrine by the railing, the one that I’d seen previously. The rite that I had overheard-- that had been a small family ritual, not the great convocation of my nightmares.

I drew my knees up, testing myself. I would have to sit up in a moment. 

My back ached from disuse, I realized. And my legs. All of my muscles felt weak. Even my hands, when I flexed them.

“The Thalmor don’t. The Advisor does. For you--as your physician. Also he says that he is still waiting on an official determination of whether there is to be a recognition of Winterhold's sovereign status or whether we’re going to be considered a province-in-rebellion and as such remain subject to the ban as outlined in the Haafingar Attachment,” Thaena said. "So until then he isn't going to be taking any action on Talos worship."

She said all of that straight out with no hesitation, just as easily and casually as "It's snowing." I blinked.

“Ahh,” I translated after a moment-- “The Advisor’s not volunteering to stick his neck out one way or the other for the axe.” 

Whether it be Ulfric Stormcloak’s or that of his own superiors.

Thaena gave a little snort of agreement: “Ancano said that the Dominion can’t tell its arse from its elbow. So, he has absolutely no faith that its left hand knows what its right is doing. He says he's waiting on specific orders."

Specific orders. 

I exhaled, because that phrase was the final puzzle-piece that slotted into place: these people meant me no harm. They had been telling me the truth. Advisor Ancano was no imposter.

For I well remembered when that question had first been asked, at one of Elenwen’s daily briefings: 

What should we do, about this rebellion? 

Skyrim’s Justiciars had been waiting on a response from Alinor for many months. Policy decisions take time. The Thalmor Advisor to the Archmage of the College of Winterhold was a lone operative, whose duties were purely social and diplomatic. Even the most rabid of the sectarians would not expect him to strap on armor and attempt to conduct law enforcement duties on his own. 

Would they? 

If someone had-- that would certainly explain Advisor Ancano's comments. 

How had he come to be so unguarded with these people? 

And of course if a Thalmor mage were being allowed to see to me--or if this household were tending me on his behalf--then it must follow that I was not, in fact, a prisoner. I regarded her more closely, this seeming-housewife, with that smear of flour on her tunic and her hair coming down from its messy pigtail.

“Where did you take your training?” I asked. Legal training, I meant. It was clear now, what she was here. 

“Father’s knee,” Thaena said. “His sister was the law-thane for the Pale; and then my mother, and after she got sick the duty was mine. Now I’m here with Korir.”

She finished with the foul paste that she’d been mixing up and handed it to me. They’d been cramming it into me for days; surely if cut open, my liver would bleed skyrr.

This batch was orangey-grey with mashed cloudberries and lumpy with gods knew what else-- it looked singularly unappetizing. 

My stomach growled, and I no longer cared.

“This is really good,” I said, astonished. “What did you do differently?” It was embarrassing how badly I craved food once I tasted it. I found myself sucking at the spoon and licking both it and the bowl fully clean, as if I were a starved cat.

Thaena was watching me, amused: “I put some soaked dried apple and toasted oats into it,” she said. “Thought maybe you needed something a bit more substantial.” She shrugged. “Ancano said that anything we gave you had to be liquid. Let me mix up more.”

When I received my new batch of aetherial slop, I tilted the bowl, experimentally. The sludgy substance within considered for a time and then consented to slide downhill. 

Grudgingly.

“Liquid?” I queried, in disbelief. 

If I overturned the bowl and shook it would take a moment or two for this stuff to fall out.

"None of it's actually solid." Thaena shrugged.

“Are you certain it’s a good idea to try to rules-lawyer a senior Thalmor official?" I questioned

Thaena gifted me with a secretive little smile. "You have no idea," she said.

A few moments later Thaena came to retrieve the bowl.

“It’s good to have you back with us,” she said. “Ahtar said you were a clever one, when you--”

She tsk’d reproof. I had already slumped sideways.

Despite the quick flash when she’d said the name, it had become too much effort to raise my eyelids. I could barely feel her prising the empty bowl out of my grip.

The world faded.


	13. Cyrelian: Ultimatum. (Winterhold, Morning Star to First Seed 4e203.)

“Well, well,” said a familiar voice. It was, of course, that copper-haired man, the one who had so enthralled me. “What are we going to do with this, huh?”

Of course I was not at my best. 

In fact, I was a disgusting mess. 

There is such a thing as unwarranted optimism, and I had not navigated the distance to the privy-stool with any particular grace. With predictable results.

“You could call the jarl and have him put me in The Chill,” I suggested, wearily. It couldn’t possibly be any colder than I was right now. 

I was lying in my own foul wet, and I couldn’t feel my feet, or my hands, or even my buttocks.

“I am the jarl,” he said. 

Ah.

I rolled over, painfully, and tried to put a bright face on it.

“Well-- help me up. And then perhaps a bath?” I asked, hopefully. 

“I’ll get Seloth,” he promised, his beard glinting as he grinned at me. “I will speak to Thaena. I think maybe she has been feeding you too much rich food too soon.” 

“No! I just ate too much of it.” I groaned, suppressing another pang. "I think I can do it if you help me."

He came over to lift me, and it was almost immediately not-fine; but it was a condition that within a short time had resolved itself. 

Once I was empty, at least. What a waste of a good meal.

No help for it; I curled up around myself and brooded. 

Back to broth tomorrow; or, gods help me, skyrr.

Malur Seloth was--also predictably-- exceedingly unhappy with me, but it did not seem that I had taken any damage to my hands and feet. I was given another severe warning about chillblains and frostbite.

And reminded, once again: if it was that urgent, use the bucket.

How revolting.

“When are they coming back?” I asked again, trying not to sound plaintive.

“There’s heavy snow up in the mountains just now,” Malur Seloth reported. 

He is friendly enough for a Dunmer, I suppose, though not particularly enthused at taking care of me. 

“When it subsides, it should hard freeze and pack all the snow down. Travel should become much easier,” he explained. Dangerous, yes, particularly if the wind shifted-- but safer than trying to trudge through whirlwind blizzard or drifting heaps of snow.

Erdi and Ahtar were off on some needful errand for the jarl, and had probably gotten stuck out at Heljarchen after the last blizzard. I had not seen either one of them since I had come back to myself, but both of them had been reported to have come and gone.

Alfgar the Dovahkiin-- per Thaena-- had gone on to establish a new settlement at a place called Windstad, not too far away from the borderland between the Pale and Hjaalmarch where we had battled the great dragon. He was working there now. Thaena had some small investment in the place. So did Erdi, courtesy of the Jarl of the Pale, in return for some task she’d done for him. Thaena said that the Dovahkiin and his builders would come to Winterhold next. She and Korir had hopes for this place.

Ma’dran’s Khajiit had moonpathed away, and no one knew where they had gone. Thaena said that Jarl Skald was still rather displeased with the caravan leader and that there was a standing order to have Ma’dran hauled into court, to answer questions about his salvage operation. Ri’saad had already come up to Dawnstar to disclaim all accountability and to promise his assistance in the matter. Skald was not holding his breath.

Marcus-- after some rather grievous disturbance of the peace in Dawnstar and a stint in Jarl Skald’s jail-- Marcus’ whereabouts were just as unknown. Erdi had told Thaena that she thought Marcus had intended to return to Solitude, but as that was enemy territory these days, communications would be difficult even if the weather cooperated.

Interestingly, there were no further rites at the Talos statue. The little shrine to Julianos in the corner, however, saw regular use.

Eventually I asked.

Thaena interrupted her drumming-practice to answer me.

But the explanation she gave me made no sense: Julianos-- formerly Jhunal-- was the townsmen’s deity, and as such had pre-eminence. Well, that part made sense, given the proximity of both the Sea of Ghosts and the College.

Talos was venerated at the indoor shrine only on his days of worship, which would include--

“Why?! Why would you Stormcloaks be celebrating Emperor’s Day?”

Laughter, even from Yllga.

Ah. I had forgotten. 

We ourselves have another name for that particular holiday: Day of Ultimatum. 

The date upon which the Thalmor ambassador delivered to the senior representative of the Mede dynasty a thoughtfully-curated, surpassingly expensive and exceedingly labor-intensive present.

“Well, we may hate the Empire, but--” Korir shrugged. He didn’t need to articulate the rest of that sentence but he did: "Everyone hates you damned elves more."

He said things like that quite a bit. There was really no need for him to fill in the gaps.

I stretched again to ease my back, being careful to avoid triggering the vertigo.

The long-suffering Malur Seloth happened to meet my gaze. I started to say something, and then stopped. I wondered how he put up with all of this. 

It took me an embarrassingly long time to discern the obvious.

I wondered, uneasily, just what these people had taken note of when Ahtar had been present, with myself in no condition to guard my thoughts. Assuming I had done or said anything at all. 

But none of them said anything to me one way or the other, and I tried not to ask after him too much.

“Why can’t you walk right?” asked Yllga.

I had been humoring her by playing with her dolly, walking it along the edge of the bed and making it speak in the affected voice of one of those Alinor-schooled Justiciars.

This was my thanks.

“None of your business,” I said, crossly, as if it didn’t matter. 

In fact I was getting anxious about it. My magicka had not come back, at all. The lack of being able to feel the nodes and leys left me as disoriented as a cat without whiskers. My muscles were still surpassingly weak. I could walk, sort of, with the assistance of a few sturdy chairs. Or, when available, a large Nord man.

Otherwise I was limited to the immediate vicinity of the bed. The vertigo remained terrifying.

“Is it because you’re defective?”

Thaena was approaching, face tight.

“Nooo,” I said, slowly. “I just got hurt. And it made me take sick.” 

Really, Thaena ought to have no concern that I would take offense. It was a natural question for a child to ask--

“Oh. Papa says you people drown your defective kynds. Or break their necks. You know. Like when there are too many kittens.”

I sat dead still, heart hitting a triphammer beat. Thaena hovered in the doorway of the next room, aghast.

But this little one-- her question was wholly innocent.

“My sister Avrilewyn was… she had a problem from birth,” I frowned at the doll and set it down, with care. “I think I know what book your papa got that out of, and it is a very ugly lie."

Yllga persisted: “Is she dead?”

“She’s gone on,” I acknowledged, soberly. “She couldn’t have lived--but we took good care of her until the day came.” 

The blandishments of my elder sisters Cireen and Elenwen notwithstanding. Thankfully, the trustees of my father’s estate had remained unconvinced. Or perhaps they had chosen a more pragmatic approach: there would be no need to upset my mother so, when the expected outcome was known by all to be inevitable.

So. Like all such lies, its seed a truth.

Yllga looked at me, thoughtfully. She asked another question.

Rather than answer it, I turned onto my side to face away from her, and closed my eyes.

“I think Mathilde should go with you for now." Thaena finally came forward to take charge of her wayward offspring. “Cyrelian needs to sleep.”

A few days later, Thaena took the time to sit with me. “Are you going to be all right?"

“They will not want me back,” I whispered. “I am of no more use to them.”

“It’s only been a little while,” she said to me. “It may get better. Don’t borrow trouble.” Thaena paused: “Do you know why she was asking?”

“I… I think that I’ve put that together now. I overheard some of the things that the herbalist was saying the last time that he was here. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “We do the best we can for her, given the circumstances. And she is doing better just now, thanks to Advisor Ancano.”

The herbalist didn’t speak much. He conducted his examinations in near-silence, tapping on me here, and listening there; and squinting at the sclera of my eyes and the inside of my mouth. I attempted to decline further examination, but the jarl growled at me; and thus I submitted, on the condition that someone remain in the room with me. 

I could not say why, but I did not trust this human. He felt off-kilter, somehow. But it would have been ridiculous to say so of this old man, with his tousled beard. And these people trusted him with their child, after all. So I pretended it was just another one of my annoying, labor-generating idiosyncrasies. Apparently I have a few.

Malur Seloth stood nearby, exasperated, his eyes turned towards Aetherius and arms folded in a posture of resignation, whilst I was poked, prodded, and pinched; and a variety of undignified answers were demanded of me.

Then I was permitted to get the rags of my shirt on and climb back under the blankets, whilst the Breton filled out a log-book, whistling some annoying little tune. 

I should note that the appalling condition of my garb had nothing to do with my keepers-- they were quite good to me, after all, and rather lavish with their foodstocks; it was just-- Winterhold is isolated and cloth is dear and I was still making a mess of myself, from time to time. Thaena did offer, but I felt there would no sense in ruining some expensive new outfit. My lack of control was intensely frustrating.

The herbalist stopped to take a quick glance at Yllga, and ensured that Thaena’s stock of medicaments was still well-stocked. He left.

Malur Seloth had something cutting to say about the waste of his time due to my ridiculous state of nerves, but I was not alert enough to manage much of a rejoinder beyond that I was on edge, because I felt like I was always being watched.

I had been having continual dreams of a shrine in the mountains, always snow-touched, with some tall and regal merish lady staring down at me in cold-eyed disapproval. A gaze to inspire terror.

Malur Seloth rolled his eyes again: "It's Lady Azura, and I'm certain you saw her as you came in, even as muddled as you were. She stands watch over this town. Approving or not, it's her priestess that came in and prayed over you, as you lay in stasis." He gave a narrow-edged smile, waiting for my reaction. "Advisor Ancano did not endorse this."

"I should say not. Rude of him to say so, though. I'm certain that it was well-meant." I laughed. "No need for any Thalmor to fear for my soul; my faith is not so frail as all that. Give the priestess my thanks."

When the weather improved still further, the black robes of the Thalmor Advisor were sighted once more on the College bridge. A townswoman ran ahead to warn the jarl.

Ancano expressed mild surprise at my level of progress, and counseled patience. He spent a great deal more time with Yllga, sitting and talking with her for nearly an hour, playing together with her toys. 

After that he took copious notes in his logbook.

Once Ancano set down pen and sanded the page, he went out onto the lookout. To meditate, he said. 

When he came back in he was just as calmly serene as when he had left, but the wind had reddened his face and neck. 

He sat by the fire. To warm up, he said. He was silent for a long while.

At this time Thaena explained to me that she and the jarl wished to speak with the Advisor apart. 

I told myself that it had to do with Yllga, but I knew better: it had to do with me. 

I had their hospitality for the winter, yes-- but I was fully cognizant of the calendar by now, and its rapidly-passing days.

Advisor Ancano came back into my alcove, and stood looming near. 

“There is no news from Alinor,” he said, in that arch voice of his. “In case you were wondering.”

“Ah,” I said, in such a way as to discourage further response. 

I did not want to have a conversation.

For all that he had represented my salvation and had been my pole-star for weeks, I did not care for the mer on first acquaintance. For the most part, he does not pretend to be even the least bit personable, which is an odd characteristic for a senior officer assigned to the diplomatic corps. 

He is also one of those annoying persons who takes an inordinate amount of care over his personal appearance, almost to the detriment of everything else. For this little errand of ministering to the sick, Advisor Ancano had gone so far as to polish the clasps on his blacks. His silvergilt hair was immaculately tended; his fingernails freshly manicured. I have seen mer less well-put-together who were headed to testify in front of the Convention. I was not at all surprised to later learn that he was not at close purposes with Elenwen. 

I do miss her acerbic little observations. 

Even then, I knew why Ancano maintained such habits: he is not one of us. Not really. Despite his looks-- which are probably what caused him to be presented to the doctrinal school in the first place--he has nothing more in common with the glories of old Aldmeris than one of our ditch-diggers. 

Maybe less. 

Those folk at least attempt to maintain some vestige of a lineage. The good Advisor, I later learned, never knew anything more of his kinship than his mother’s name and the fact that she was a recusant and almost certainly a whore. Little Yllga’s barn-birthed cat has more pedigree than he does.

I have no idea why he continued to stand over me and regard me with disfavor.

I lay quite still, breathing slowly, and praying that Ancano would go away. No such luck; he settled himself in for the duration. Staring at me and giving me a headache.

“I did not expect there to be any news. Your name is not to be found on any of the missing-in-action or unsanctioned-leave lists.”

Had there been that much disruption in Haafingar? That was curious. He was silent. Counting my respirations or some such. Go away, I willed. He lingered.

I broke first: “What is my currently posted assignment?”

Since, of course, I was here and not wherever-that-was, I supposed I could add dereliction-of-duty to my mountain of demerits. 

“That is something else that is curious," said the Advisor, darkly. As if all of this were my fault. "I receive the monthly updates on our posting information as part of my duties for the First Emissary-- and I have never seen your name on any one of them." He coughed. "Nor did I see you on any of those commencement lists which the First Emissary insists on sending along."

I said nothing.

"When I return we shall speak of this further," he warned; that was the Justiciar-in-charge voice, as cutting as Sun's Dawn ice. I knew it to be an ultimatum.

I could not control my demeanor; thankfully my face was buried in the pillow. I swallowed past the fear and nausea and made great efforts to calm my breathing; the ugly hammering of my pulse.

I did not move.

I feigned sleep. The dreams that I had been having; that cold and barren mountain side under the contemptuous eyes of a god-- oh. Enduring those dreams was preferable to enduring this scrutiny.

Eventually Ancano left. Or I slept. I don't know which.


	14. Cyrelian: Invocation. (Winterhold, First Seed 4e203.)

How long had it been since any of my family even knew where I was?

My family other than First Emissary Elenwen, that is. 

And my sister Elenwen had not known I was to be sent to Skyrim. She may well have taken full advantage of the fact that I was under her authority, but I had witnessed her genuine shock at my arrival. The First Emissary's reach does not extend to the expungement of documentation in Alinor. Someone else's hand had been at work. I prayed it was Elodie's. Truthfully I did not like this; an above-board assignment to some trivial duty in Skyrim would have been far better for my purposes. Perhaps-- I would hold onto the thought that it was my aunt Elodie-- perhaps she had reasons for keeping it sub rosa. I brooded.

The next day, or the following:

I could not rid myself of this pestilent mer; here he was again, haranguing me in that irritating nasal voice. Why? My condition was unchanged. No one had sent for him. And the rest of it was really nothing of his business, unless and until he heard from Alinor.

Advisor Ancano continued to glower downwards at me as I lay feigning drowsiness. 

He was awaiting my answer. 

So I mumbled something, my voice thick.

"I cannot hear you when you speak into that hood," he said, crossly. Then he demanded to know if I had been keeping up with my memory-recitations. Of course I had not. What was there to remember? Whether or not I had wet myself yesterday as I lay sleeping? I lay still and wished for him to go away.

Thaena came in then with a question about Yllga's diet, and what they should do as the weather warmed. Should she be permitted outside, or not? And did the weather matter? What if she got too excited and tried to run?

By the time Ancano's attention returned to me, I no longer needed to pretend sleep.

Within a double-handful of days, the Thalmor Advisor to Winterhold was back demanding answers:

"What were your duties when you first arrived in Skyrim?" He frowned at me. "To whom did you report?"

I would have to thread this needle carefully. 

“It may be that my officer had not yet submitted my name for any particular assignment,” I said. “I was still in the one-on-one training phase when all of this chaos occurred and a number of the Justiciars were called away from the Embassy.” 

I did my best to look sheepish. “I think that they might have forgotten about me, to some extent. I ended up just running errands and studying, most of the time.” 

“I’m well aware that you found a way to gallivant around the city as you pleased,” said Ancano, severely. “Don’t play these games with me. Who was your officer?”

I pondered this question at some length. “I regret to say that I cannot disclose that information without specific prior authorization,” I advised. 

This was a mistake.

Without warning, Ancano stooped to grasp my fur coverlet, and sent it sailing away from the bed in one smooth motion. I yelped in protest at the sudden exposure and the gust of cold air, only to have my ankle grabbed and--

I ended up sprawled on my back, gasping, staring up at him-- my shirt having torn through and ridden up my back, the rest of my unappealing hide all on display for him.

“Your pardon,” said Ancano, in that piercing voice. “I appear to have done you a disservice. Clearly you are still convalescing, and not yourself. Well, I’ll leave you in these people’s good care. Until such time as you find yourself capable of civilized discourse.”

I kept gasping. I could not speak.

“Under normal circumstances, of course, my next action would be to send a memorandum along to the First Emissary demanding the same answers.” Ancano didn’t miss my reaction. And his expression was not a smile. 

Thaena came in, curious. I nearly swooned with relief.

“I’ve already spoken with Auryen Morellus,” Ancano advised me. “Most helpful. Speaking with him has assisted me in determining that these circumstances are... Not normal? So--” his eyes glinted. “we may have to get creative in our approach.”

How wondrous. 

Thanks to my stupid babbling at Auryen, the Advisor would have had all of the details I had been ordered to keep from my colleagues and superiors. 

Now what? Would the Thalmor and my trustees be apprised of everything? 

And what would my Aunt Elodie do? 

Take up one of my younger sisters as her protege, I suppose, or one of her great-grandnieces.

Leave, I willed. 

I rolled to my side, facing away from him. It had worked on the small child.

Instead, Ancano remained, appearing to take some enjoyment from my discomfiture, such as it was. Had I been fresh out of the academy, I suppose I would have been writhing in embarrassed agony; at this point I was too exhausted, save that him standing there in his robes was giving me an acute case of nerves. 

At least he did not approach me.

“What is the purpose of those markings all over your lower back?” Ancano demanded, abruptly.

This annoyed me. That irritating little prick Marcus had bothered me with similar comments previously-- it must not have been my caste-mark after all--when we had all been dressed to swim. The mage-alterers must not have gotten the freckle-dappling quite right in that region of my body--I suspected there to be visible streaking--and of course there had not been the opportunity for me to get it touched up.

“Cosmetic enhancement,” I answered, shortly. “Tied to melanin and sun exposure.” And: “I’m sorry,” I said more snidely. “Have you never had the opportunity to see one of the better ones up close?” Thus implying two things: that the Advisor’d never had the cash to acquire such a thing; and that he had never been intimate with anyone who did.

Advisor Ancano sniffed: “One that's comprised of a daedric invocation? No. Never.” With that rejoinder he left.

After I was safely abed, it took me a good hour to remember that my cosmetic enhancements had all broken when my magicka had burned off. 

They were gone. I didn't have freckles at all, now.

So... what in Oblivion was decorating my lower back?

Malur Seloth was, once again, rather annoyed with me. Apparently I am heavy enough that it is at some cost to his own lumbar region that he finds the strength to assist me to get back up onto the bed, when the dizziness has come. 

From the sounds of the later nocturnal activities, I’m quite certain that his back recovered-- and that Thaena made it up to him.

It was not possible, I determined, for me to catch a glimpse of this thing on my back. Not especially limber after my weeks abed, I wasted quite a lot of time trying-- and suffering many relapses of vertigo. For obvious reasons, I was sorely reluctant to ask my hosts.

One undergoes a comprehensive physical and magickal examination at Lillandril, the day before one takes the Oath. I had not had whatever-it-was on that day. Questions would have been asked, I was sure of it. And of course my dressing-chambers had had a full-length mirror. Something I had not had access to throughout my time in Skyrim.

Who had done this to me? Why?

And... when?

“When?” I demanded.

I was jittering around, like Yllga demanding to know about her Saturalia presents. “When? When? When?”

“Hold your horses,” said the jarl, “It’s likely to be later this week or early next. The wind took a little while to settle down.” 

He smiled; Jarl Korir and his family were congenial enough, but it was plain they were happy to be rid of the chore of caring for me.

“Your friends are taking over the old spring-house; so once that is ready you will go there.” He paused: "Do you want to go see it?" 

Thaena had been pestering me for weeks to accept a change of clothes; finally I gave in.

This was the first time I had managed to be outside in weeks, my previous feeble attempts at escape notwithstanding. It was cold, but not as cold as I had anticipated. Even though grey clouds covered the skies, my eyes burned from the light.

Korir and Malor Seloth-- the later swearing mightily-- got me up onto a packhorse, and I clutched desperately onto its harness as it was led about. I could barely see.

There were construction crews and carpenters everywhere, even working on the building across from the jarl's longhouse. 

Korir pointed out where the new blacksmith would be taking residence. I shaded my eyes to look.

"Part of the deal we made with Skald was getting this place built back up," he said. "We've got a new settlement going in up east of here, along the road to Eastmarch. Little mining town." 

He laughed at my question. "We're well behind Ulfric's lines, so thought it was time to take the chance. Can't wait forever on this foolish war."

"So where's this statute I keep hearing about?" I asked him. I kept dreaming of it.

The jarl glanced up northeast, towards the mountains. "Too snowy and foggy today, I guess," he said. "Bit far for you in your condition. When you're well we can go up there, hey? Sight to see."

I looked up as well, but my eyes were too dazzled by the sun to pierce the lowering mists, and I saw nothing but the disapproving mountain.

While I had been more than happy to vacate the chamber that had been my home for so long, it was also a pleasure to return to its close warmth.

My face was burning and tingling with the cold.

I could smell the freshness of the air still, on my outer garments.

When I was alert enough again I put the ratty old things back on. If I were going to live on my own, I was going to have to learn to be frugal.

"What do you think, Korir? Should we put him in the guest-chambers for now?" asked Thaena. "I can put the three of them down there for now and then we can have our table back up here."

Korir shrugged. 

"He can get about well enough on his own," said Malur Seloth, grumpily. Well, that was true, so long as one meant creeping along a wall slowly or crawling, as case may be. "I'd like to have my work space back. If it's all the same."

After the excitement and exertion of the move, the next couple of days were difficult for me.

I did my best to stay alert, but it happened that I was sleeping when Ahtar came in. Thaena came in a few hours later and woke me, so that I could get dressed.

“You look like your old self,” Ahtar said, astonished.

“Master Ancano’s pieced some of my cosmetic enhancements back together,” I reported. "He's mostly done with my eyes; it's just the epidermal work. And the hair, but that's nothing."

This had been my reward for becoming substantially more cooperative. We had even written a letter to my mother, which Ancano said he would send outside of normal channels. How he was planning on getting it past the Thalmor censors I have no idea, but the good Advisor has his ways.

“He thought it was all fallen apart, but it had just become attenuated because it was magicka-starved--all it needed was to be re-attuned to the ground-rootlets-- just as it would be for a non-mage.”

"Huh," said Ahtar.

He had no idea what I was talking about, but he was pleased, I gathered, with my progress.

"Is Erdi with you?" I asked.

"On her way to Dawnstar soon," Ahtar said. roughly enough that I wondered if I had displeased him. He cleared his throat. "Something was going on in Haafingar," he said. "Which meant a new job for her. From the message it looked like it was gonna take her too long and she might get stuck behind the weather, so when it cleared up enough I came up here on my own."

Ahtar looked up at the sound of the bell.

"An hour till supper," I said, at once. "Thaena got tired of constantly having to chase down all of the attendants."

At this time, the court attendants here were about equally distributed between Korir's guardsmen and cowherds, but I'll say this: Thaena and Korir were trying.

We spoke about this and that.

I was shy of him again; awkward. It was difficult to find the words.

I admired his new armor; he asked about some of the changes in protocol Erdi had suggested. Korir and Thaena were holding court these days, of a sort.

Their efforts at finding Azura's artifact had petered out-- so far no one knew where the fortress it was said to be in was located-- but they had in fact recovered the Crown of Winterhold for Korir. Korir had actually brought it in to show it off to me, before it had gone to the smith's for refurbishing.

“Could you take a look at my lower back?”

"Looks fine," said Ahtar. "I mean, I don't see anything goin' on."

His fingernails scritched lightly over my skin; I shuddered. 

"Something bothering you?" he asked, offhanded, fingertips still searching as if hunting down some blemish.

I rolled to my belly. 

"It's that tattoo," I said. "Is it--"

“Looks pretty good. Lines’re fresh and clean. You worried about the color fading out? Is it supposed to be kind of an olivey-green?”

“Um,” I said. “Is anything else odd about it?” 

I craned my neck, but of course I could not see anything at all. I searched for inspiration. “Does it look any different?”

Good gods, Ahtar was tracing the damned thing with his finger; it was practically all the way down onto the top of my backside; it must look like the advertisement-mark of a Menevian harlot. 

At least he didn’t seem to dislike it. 

“It’s not glowing or anything, is it?” I asked, nervously. “The Advisor was asking questions about it like maybe he thought something weird was going on with it.”

Ahtar chuckled. “Nope,” he said. “Looks fine. Dunno what that Thalmor was talking about.”

“When did you first notice it on me?” I asked, curious.

“Mhmm. Scrubbin’ floors. You didn’t see me. Couple days before we first talked, I think.” His fingers continued to work, approvingly. “Sexy. Good piece of work. Won’t have to get it redone for years, maybe.” 

He kept touching it, but when I began to grind down into the mattress and tried to pull his hand to me, he stopped.

“Nuh-uh,” Ahtar cautioned, and nodded at the open doorway. 

And I hadn’t missed the fact he’d only taken off cuirass and shirt; the answer to the question which I was asking was: No. 

We were already pushing matters as it was, being in the same bed. So I did not complain. Not this time, at least. After a few more moments he patted me. "Got to go get cleaned up," he said. "Almost time for supper."

"You go eat," I said at once. "Somebody'll bring me something here." 

I smiled at him, as if the luxury of servitors was some perquisite I had demanded, rather than necessity. I would kill to be able to get myself dressed and walk to the table. 

I was already falling asleep, again.

Later: 

“You came back,” I said again, unaccountably delighted. I could still feel the connection between us, for aught that I was deaf to all else. His scent; his heat-- I could not let go. I had one of his wrists; I poked my finger into his shirt-cuff so that I could touch even more of him.

Ahtar yawned. “Never would have left,” he said. “I mean, even for a little. But I needed to get out there and make some money. What they told me was that you weren’t gonna be waking up without some pretty fancy spell-work--if you ever did at all. Said it would take time-- months an’ months.”

His body rippled; he could not stop his own laughter either, suppressed as it was. His beard tickled. I jumped.

“Should have told them you was kind of stubborn,” he mused.

I laid there with him, sharing in his astonished joy, until a gentle snoring told me that he had fallen asleep.

More dreams. 

Have I not had my fill of sleep? 

Dreams of a shrine which draws my gaze south and east like some perverse lodestone; the hiss of snow eternally beating against the cold rocks of these mountains. A severe and forbidding countenance bends down upon me. I have not come here willingly, no--but here I belong. This place is my ground; my center. My heart and gut should be cold, but they are hot and roiling. I feel ill. Still, I do not bow my head. I do not move. My whole being is rigid with defiance: It will not be.

I wake, to hear the snow-pellets driving against the roof with each gust of wind. And that disapproving voice, echoing down to me: You are no more to me than dust. 

My gods? My ancestors? What does it matter to me now? I have labored all my life under the heavy weight of disapproval. So--

No. I refuse. I will not lend myself to this. 

You may kill me where I stand, but I will not bend the knee.

My chilled fingers seek the warmth of the man sound asleep beside me; Ahtar barely moves as I roll over and burrow against him, willing myself to stay wakeful as long as I can. 

As long as--


End file.
